Psychic Mojo
by Swanseajill
Summary: When Dean is kidnapped as part of a plan to force Sam to use his psychic abilities, Sam begins a race against time to find his brother. Meanwhile, Dean finds himself helpless in the hands of a desperate man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Psychic Mojo  
**By:** Swanseajill  
**Rating:** Gen, R (to be on the safe side – warning for violence and torture in some scenes)  
**Pairing:** No pairing  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** Set somewhere between Nightmare and Dead Man's Blood. Slight spoiler for Nightmare.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters nor am I making any money from them.  
**Author's notes:** This one is for iamstealthlyone, the best beta ever and without whom I'd probably never post anything. Happy birthday! Huge thanks also to Sunrize83 for her hard work on the beta for this fic and to Jennk528 for her helpful comments and for suffering with me through the writing of it!

The story is complete, but I thought I'd post it one part a day. There are nine parts in all.

**Summary:** When Dean is kidnapped in a plan to force Sam to use his psychic abilities, Sam begins a race against time to find his brother. Meanwhile, Dean finds himself helpless in the hands of a desperate man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

**Psychic Mojo**  
**  
Friday, 11 pm**

Sam tensed as Dean sank the final ball and the crowd around the pool table burst into applause and cheers of appreciation.

If he'd seen Sam's unease, Dean would have scoffed and told him to chill; there was no reason to worry. No reason, Sam mused, other than the fact that Dean had just successfully hustled a hustler who had beaten four opponents that evening. And the expression on the man's face was one of undisguised fury. And then there was the fact that he was well over six feet tall and broad shouldered, with a muscled physique marred only by the beer belly hanging over his jeans.

Oh--and he had fists like hams, the air of a man who was no stranger to bar room brawls, and a girl who had been shooting Dean flirtatious looks all evening. All good reasons not to worry.

Right.

The hustler took a few menacing steps toward Dean, curling his hands into fists. Dean stood his ground, looking unconcerned, but his fingers tightened around the pool cue. Sam shot out of his chair, getting ready to back his brother, when one of the hustler's companions put a hand on the disgruntled man's shoulder and murmured quietly in his ear. Shorter and slighter than the hustler, he looked barely out of his teens and therefore younger than the other by a good five or six years. Yet he had the same square features and curly black hair that strongly suggested to Sam that the two were brothers.

To Sam's relief the hustler seemed to heed his brother's words, albeit with bad grace. Shooting one final venomous look at Dean, he pulled his girlfriend to him and elbowed his way past the crowd, heading for the bar.

For a moment the girl resisted, then, after a quick regretful glance in Dean's direction, she slipped an arm around her boyfriend's waist and followed willingly. Dean looked after her thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to accept a few handshakes and claps on the back from members of the crowd.

Sam sank back into his seat and tried to look unconcerned and relaxed when the crowd dispersed and Dean sauntered back to their table, grinning widely and totally unperturbed that he had narrowly escaped what could have been a nasty brawl. He flourished a generous handful of bills in Sam's nose.

"Two hundred dollars, Sammy-boy. Should keep us in bread and water for a week or two."

"That's great, Dean. Now can we get out of here before that sucker changes his mind and heads over here to beat your face in?"

Dean cast a disparaging glance in the direction of the hustler. "Only in his dreams, dude."

"Well, he is built like a brick house, Dean," Sam commented dryly.

"So?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "What, you think he could take me?"

His brother eyed the hustler speculatively, and Sam groaned inwardly; it was quite possible that Dean was considering provoking the guy just to prove he could beat him.

"No, I don't, and I don't need you to prove it, either," he said firmly. "In case you've forgotten, we're supposed to be keeping a low profile."

Dean sighed theatrically. "Fine. Be a killjoy. What's the matter, you afraid you're gonna miss your favorite Infomercial?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're so funny."

Dean waggled his eyebrows. "So they tell me."

Sam stood up and pulled on his jacket. As he turned to go, he found a stranger blocking his way. Sam frowned. He had noticed the man earlier, sitting alone at a nearby table, nursing a glass of beer. Occasionally Sam had caught him staring in their direction before he'd looked quickly away, giving Sam the distinct impression that he'd been watching him. Then he'd dismissed the idea. There was nothing to indicate the man was anything other than a stranger enjoying a quiet beer. He looked to be in his early fifties, curly black hair beginning to thin and liberally peppered with gray. Gray beard, small, round glasses. Nothing to suggest he was demon-possessed or a shape-shifter in disguise.

"Sam Barrister?"

Sam stiffened at the stranger's use of the alias he'd used on their last job. "Sorry, you have the wrong person," he replied automatically.

The man held his ground and cleared his throat. "Look, son, I understand if you don't want to be recognized, but I need a moment of your time."

Sam glanced at Dean, who shook his head slightly. But the man didn't look like a threat, and it would make sense to find out how he knew the alias.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I have a cousin up in Fork River," the stranger began, and Sam sensed Dean tensing beside him. They had been in Fork River the previous week and drawn more attention to themselves than was wise. "He's one of the men you saved from the cave-in."

Sam exchanged a quick glance with Dean. A vision of four men killed by a cave-in had taken them to the small town of Fork River. Knowing that time was of the essence, Sam had insisted that they tell the sheriff about the vision. Fortunately for the cavers, the sheriff was an open-minded man who gave Sam the benefit of the doubt and immediately mustered a rescue team. As the men made their way out of the cave, a small tremor brought down the roof of the passage they had been in moments before. Everyone agreed that had they stayed where they were, they would all have been crushed to death.

Dean had persuaded the sheriff to keep Sam's part in the rescue under wraps, but inevitably the truth had leaked out. Later that afternoon the brothers had been confronted by flashing cameras and the local press clamoring for an interview. They had evaded the press and hurriedly left town, driving through the night to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Fork River. They had thought they'd gotten away with it. Until now.

"Then you definitely have the wrong person," Dean said casually. "We've never been to Fork River."

The man frowned and produced a newspaper, poking a finger at a picture. "You trying to tell me that isn't you two?"

Sam reluctantly took the paper. He knew what he would see. An internet search the day after the incident had revealed he was front-page news in the Fork River Gazette. He looked at the photo. It was a slightly grainy but recognizable shot of him and Dean walking out of the sheriff's office. The photographer had captured a look of surprise on Sam's face and a snarl on Dean's. He handed the paper back.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I guess there's a resemblance, and I can see how you'd make a mistake. But as my brother said, we've never been to Fork River."

"Look." There was a note of desperation in the stranger's voice and Sam took a hasty step backward as the man leaned forward into his personal space. "I need your help. My daughter went missing eight months ago. She's only ten years old. We haven't seen or heard from her since, but I know she's still alive--I can feel it. I need you to help me find her."

Sam felt the color drain from his face. This was the moment he had been dreading since the first vision. That someone would ask for his help and he would be unable to give it. He was floundering for a response when Dean stepped in.

"I'm sorry about your daughter." Dean's tone was pleasant but firm. "But you've got it wrong. We can't help you."

"Didn't you hear me?" The man raised his voice, and several men at the bar looked around to see what was happening. "My daughter's only ten years old. She'll be eleven next month." He held Sam's gaze, and Sam was unable to tear his eyes from the pain he saw there. "I know you see things, you're psychic. Here, this teddy bear, it was hers. Maybe if you hold it…"

He thrust out a ragged bear, and Sam reflexively took it. He cleared his throat and found his voice unsteady when he spoke. "Listen, you don't understand. Like my brother said, I really can't help you. It just doesn't work like that…"

"Sam!" Sam shut up at Dean's sharp command. He knew he'd said too much, but something in him wanted this man to know the truth. He didn't want the distraught father to think him unfeeling.

Dean put a hand on Sam's elbow, gripping firmly, and addressed the stranger. "I've told you once. I'll tell you again. You have the wrong person." The words were harsher this time, his expression cold. "Let's go, Sam."

Sam knew Dean was right. There was nothing he could do to help, and trying to explain would just make things worse. Dean squeezed his arm and Sam turned to leave, only to find his path blocked once again. He'd been so caught up in the conversation that he hadn't noticed two men leave the bar to stand between them and the door. It was the hustler and his brother.

"You're not going anywhere. Dad asked for your help, and you're going to help him."

Dad? Sam glanced at the stranger and immediately saw the family resemblance. This was just perfect. Now it was three to one, their chances of walking out quietly non-existent.

"We're leaving," Dean said evenly. "So why don't you just step aside and we'll be on our way."

The hustler folded his arms, his expression belligerent. Sam could smell whiskey on his breath. He was obviously drunk and spoiling for the fight he'd been denied earlier. "I'm not going anywhere," he said loudly, "so you'll just have to go through me--if you can." He re-arranged his features into a smirk as he stared at Dean.

"Joe…" The older man's voice held a note of warning, but his son ignored him.

Dean shrugged. "Fine. We don't want any trouble. We'll just go out the back way." He half turned, and Sam saw the move coming long before Joe, whose senses were obviously dulled by the alcohol. Dean's right hook hit him square on the nose, knocking him back into a table. But for a big man he was fast, bouncing back with a right hook of his own that sent Dean reeling. Sam tensed, one eye on Dean and the other on Joe's brother, but the young man stood his ground, casting an anxious glance at his father. Dean recovered quickly, blocking the next punch and grabbing the hustler's right arm, using his opponent's momentum to slam him into the wall. The hustler grunted and crumpled to his knees.

As Dean closed in to finish the fight, the father stepped forward and held up a hand. "That's enough!"

The bartender pushed his way through the crowd at the same moment. "He's right. I want all of you out of here. I don't care what your beef is, you don't settle it in my bar, you understand?"

The brother was helping Joe up. Dean balanced on the balls of his feet, alert in case his opponent ignored the order. Sam moved to flank his brother, ready to throw himself into the fray. The father stepped in front of his elder son.

"This is over, Joe."

Joe glared at him, wiping blood from his nose with one huge fist. "Dad, you gotta be kiddin' me. He started it…"

"I said, this is over." There was a ring of authority in the stranger's tone, and to Sam's surprise, after a long moment, Joe nodded. But he threw a look of contempt at his father as he irritably shook off his brother's helping hand.

The father looked at Sam and Dean. "I'm sorry. I didn't want this. Joe's got a bad temper, always has." He ignored the black glare his son shot him. "He loves his sister, and he wants Maddy back as much as I do. But if you can't help, then I guess there's no more to be said. We won't bother you again." He held Sam's gaze for a moment, and Sam felt helpless in the face of his raw despair.

He swallowed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't help you," he muttered as Dean grabbed his arm and marched him out of the bar.

Not until they were on the road again did Sam realize he was still clutching the ragged teddy bear in both hands.

**Saturday, 7 am**

Dean woke instantly, instinctively turning his head from intrusive brightness. He groaned and cracked an eye to observe in disgust the bright shaft of light penetrating the wide gap in the curtains. He glanced at the illuminated display of the clock beside the bed and swore grumpily beneath his breath. 7 am. It was too early to get up. He had barely slept, his mind buzzing with worry for Sam and his visions, trying to make some sense of it all. Sam himself had tossed and turned most of the night. Dean was sure it was due to his brother's regret at being unable to help that desperate father.

Dean knew that he'd been harsh with the man and with Sam, but protecting his brother was more important than disappointing a stranger they were unable to help.

Since Sam had admitted to having psychic visions, Dean had tried to hide the extent to which this "gift" unnerved him. Anything that happened to his brother that he was unable to understand and couldn't control was something to worry about. He wasn't even sure you could call visions of impending death a "gift." As far as Dean was concerned, it had so far proved to be more of a curse – to Sam, at least.

Sam had suffered four more waking visions since the incident with Max. On two occasions, they had arrived in time to save those concerned. But on the other two they had been too late, and on both occasions Dean had stood beside his brother, feeling his anguish and guilt. No amount of telling Sam that it wasn't his fault had convinced his brother otherwise. Why, Sam argued, would he be given a vision unless it had a purpose – to give him a chance to prevent the death? Dean hadn't yet found a convincing enough argument to shoot down this theory.

He heard a sound from the other bed and turned over, propping himself up on one elbow to observe the brother he had thought was asleep.

Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching something so tightly his knuckles gleamed white. Dean watched in growing concern as he hunched over, eyes closed and face screwed up in concentration. After a moment, Sam uttered a cry of frustration and hurled the object across the room in Dean's direction.

Dean reflexively fielded the furry missile, finding his hands full of ... moth-eared teddy bear. He might have known.

"You know, if you'd wanted a bear to cuddle, you only had to ask," he said lightly, sitting up and swinging his legs over the bed. "I could've got you one for your birthday."

Sam didn't respond.

"Sam? You gonna to tell me what you were doing?" The words came out more harshly than he'd intended, but damn it, Sam shouldn't be doing this to himself.

"Nothing."

"Sam," he tried to keep his voice light. "You were sitting there, muttering to a teddy bear. That isn't normal, even for you."

Sam sighed. "I thought… I've never tried it, okay? Holding an object to see if I can make a vision happen."

"I'm guessing it didn't work?"

"What do you think?"

Dean padded across the room and sat down beside his brother.

"Sam, you know you have no control over this thing."

Sam looked at him, eyes filled with anguish. "I know, but I thought maybe if I stopped being afraid of it and… and tried to figure out how it works, what triggers it…."

"You've tried before."

"Yeah, well, maybe I haven't tried hard enough." Sam set his mouth in a stubborn line.

"Sam, I know you feel bad for that guy," Dean said softly. "But you can't help him."

Sam chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "I shouldn't have just walked out like that," he said finally. "I could have talked to him, explained why I can't just conjure visions."

Dean shook his head. "He might have listened, but his son sure as hell wasn't in the mood to. He wouldn't have believed you and things would have gotten out of control. The best thing we can do now is forget about them and put some space between you and this place."

"What about the case?"

"You said it yourself earlier, it's most likely a dead end." They had come to town to investigate the report of a mysterious beast terrorizing a group of teenagers. There were rumors of similar sightings fifty years ago. The sightings had coincided with several deaths, and it was possible the creature was beginning to hunt again – if it even existed. So far, they had found little evidence that the latest incident was anything more than the product of the teenagers' vivid imaginations.

"We haven't finished our research," Sam argued. "There are still five families to interview, and we need to check on the deaths fifty years ago, to see if there's a pattern."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, we'll give it one more day. But I think you should keep a low profile. I'll stay in town, talk to the families. You drive over to Jackville and check the records in the library."

Sam nodded and stood. "I'll take first shower."

"Just don't be a girl and use all the hot water."

Sam gave him the finger as he walked past, but it was a half-hearted gesture and Dean could tell his brother was still upset. He sat for a while, staring in frustration at the bear he was still holding. Then, with a decisive flick of the wrist, he threw it into the trash can.


	2. Chapter 2

**Psychic Mojo**

Part Two (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

**Saturday, 7 pm**

Sam rubbed his aching neck and stretched, feeling bones in his spine and back crack. He'd been hunched over old newspapers and computer files for so long he was surprised he hadn't collected dust.

He had looked up every reference to the killings of fifty years ago. He was now almost one hundred per cent sure that they had been committed by a conventional animal--most likely a rabid grizzly bear, as some of the newspaper articles suggested--rather than anything more sinister. If the bear had died or moved territory, that would explain why the killings stopped. So unless Dean came up with something in his interviews, the case was closed.

He stood, stretching again to loosen more kinks in his back muscles, then scooped up the final pile of papers and returned them to the correct shelf. He packed his laptop away in his backpack and made his way to the entrance.

The elderly woman at the desk smiled as he passed. "You students are so conscientious these days. I hope you're planning to have some fun this evening, after all that study."

"I'll try," he said, flashing her a grin. He was quite sure that she wouldn't classify a quick bite from a drive-thru burger joint, a two-hour drive and an evening watching fuzzy TV in a flea-bitten motel room 'fun'.

He jogged down the flight of steps onto the sidewalk and paused. It was dark and a little chillier than you would normally expect for a mid-September evening in Colorado. A light drizzle was falling, but he remembered that the forecast was for sun and clear skies the next day. At least that was something to look forward to. He turned up his collar, waiting until he was back in the Impala before pulling out his cell and punching in Dean's number.

"Yo."

"It's me."

"Hey, Sammy, what's happening?" Dean's voice was faint amidst the roar of background noise, indicating that his brother was in a public place.

"Where are you?" Sam asked.

"Rosie's diner. Early-evening half-price special. Meatloaf to kill for."

Sam felt his stomach rumble at the thought. Maybe he'd change his plans and find a diner instead of the drive-thru. After all, he was in no real hurry to get back to the motel. "So, how did you get on?" he asked.

"Zip. I think we're barking up the wrong monster."

"Yeah, me too. Looks like the 1950's deaths were all caused by a grizzly, just like the initial reports said."

"Fine. You get your butt back here and we'll move on tomorrow. I vote we head south. It's gonna turn cold up here soon."

"Sounds good. Listen, I'm planning to find a diner, get something to eat. Should be back around ten. You have plans?"

"I'll stick around here for a while, I guess. They have a live band playing later. And there's this really cute waitress, she's got the biggest—"

"No sign of those guys from last night?" Sam interrupted before Dean could wax lyrical about the cute waitress's attributes.

"Nope. Don't worry, little brother, I'm not looking for trouble."

Somehow, that wasn't comforting. Dean never planned to get into trouble, but somehow, it always seemed to seek him out. But he knew better than to tell his brother to be careful. Instead, he said, "Well, have fun, I'll see you later."

He was glad Dean had the sense not to return to Frankie's bar. That hustler, Joe, was mean-looking, and while he knew Dean could handle himself, he didn't like the idea of his brother going up against the guy without backup.

An hour later, stomach comfortably full after a substantial meal at a nearby diner, Sam hit the road.

Now that he had nothing concrete to occupy his mind, there was also nothing to prevent his thoughts from returning to the scene in the bar the previous evening. He couldn't shake the image of the father's anguished features, and the desperation in his eyes. The depth of pain as he'd begged for Sam's help had clearly been genuine.

Sam was angry with himself. What good was a gift if you couldn't control it and use it to help people? The thing of it was, he still wasn't sure if it was a gift or a curse, and he knew that Dean felt the same way, although his brother was careful never to say so. Sam couldn't see how it could be a curse, though, as so far it had given him the chance to save lives. But there were so many other lives he could save, if he could only control it. He hadn't told Dean, but over the past few months he'd spent a lot of time trying to work out how and why the visions came to him when they did. But he was no further along in understanding them.

It was a quarter after ten when the Impala shuddered to a noisy halt outside their motel room. Sam wasn't surprised to see the curtain open and the room in darkness. Dean had probably hooked up with that waitress, and if so, wasn't likely to be back until two at the earliest. Sam turned the key in the lock and entered, flicking on the light and quickly scanning the room. Being constantly alert for danger was second nature. He wondered fleetingly what it was like to be a normal person who could enter a motel room without checking if a ghost or demon was lying in wait. You had to wonder about a family who drew salt lines around the bed as part of their nightly ritual.

Everything looked much as they'd left it this morning. Dean's open bag stood on the floor beside his bed, clothes spilling out of it. Sam walked over to his own bed and sat. He was weary, fighting a headache and looking forward to some mindless channel surfing while he waited for Dean to return. He crossed the room and picked up the remote control.

The vision hit out of nowhere.

Pain exploded in his head and pulsed like a laser through his brain. For a long moment, his vision swam in dazzling brightness, until an image came into focus.

A large room; some kind of barn or shed, dimly lit by watery light filtering through bare windows. In the middle of the room, he saw his brother, hanging by his arms from a rope attached to a beam in the ceiling, naked and shivering. Dean, blood dripping down his face, jaw discolored. Dean, lip curled in contempt and defiant eyes fixed on something or someone Sam couldn't see.

The room spun, everything went fuzzy, and Sam staggered to his knees, clutching his head as the searing pain continued to scorch its path through his mind. Then the room tilted and he was back in the barn. There was movement and a man came into his sightline. A tall, heavily built man with curly black hair and a sneer in his eyes.

Dean's lips moved, and whatever he said caused the man's expression to darken. He stepped forward and hit Dean, a hard jab to the face followed by a punishing blow to the gut. Dean's eyes widened, his body jerked under the impact and he gasped for the air that had been knocked out of his lungs. Blood began to run down his chin from a split lip.

The man moved back a pace and said something. Dean replied, and this time the man's lips curled in a snarl of rage. He picked up something Sam couldn't identify and moved in again, swinging the object with brutal force into Dean's ribs. Another blow, and then another and another, until Dean hung limply from his bonds, head resting heavily on his chest.

Blackness descended and reality returned with a jolt. Sam found himself in a crumpled heap on the floor between the TV and the bed. His head pounded violently and he felt bile rising in his throat. He staggered to his feet, lurched through the bathroom door and fell to his knees just in time to lose the remnants of his meatloaf in the toilet bowl.

After a few moments, he got shakily to his feet, forcing rubbery legs to cooperate. He splashed cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth. He was shaking, from the shock of what he'd seen as well as the pain that had accompanied it.

He staggered back into the bedroom and sank down on his bed. The vision had been as vivid and brutal as the others; there was no reason to doubt it was real. He pulled out his cell and punched in the familiar number with shaking hands. His heart beat fast in time with the ringing tone for a long ten seconds before the cell was answered.

"Dean!"

"I'm afraid Dean can't talk right now," said a voice that wasn't his brother's. "He's a bit tied up. Can I help you?"

Sam's grip on the cell tightened. "What have you done to my brother?"

"That you, Sam?" the voice said, and Sam thought he had heard it somewhere before.

"I haven't done anything to your brother – yet. But I can't deny that he's my guest. If you want him back, all you have to do is come and get him."

"What? Where are you? What the hell is this about?"

"I'm sure you can find us, Sam. Just use your psychic mojo. And let's just say it's in your brother's best interest for you to come as soon as you can."

"Let me speak to him."

"Sorry. Not right now. Maybe later. I'll be seeing you, Sam."

"No, wait--"

The cell went dead. Sam stared at it, hardly able to believe what he had just heard. He ran a hand through his hair. His head still thumped, and he felt slightly nauseous, but he needed to think. To be logical, to piece this together as if it were any case. As if it hadn't been his brother he'd seen tied up and helpless, mercilessly beaten by a madman.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to recall the details of the vision, knowing they would fade with time. His mind skittered past the image of his beaten brother, trying to focus on the surroundings, but there was little to note. Loose straw scattered on the floor, what could have been hay bales in one corner, and a dark indistinguishable shape in another. Just a barn like a hundred other barns. He brought the stranger into focus then, recalling his features.

His eyes popped open and his stomach lurched as he recognized Dean's abductor. It was Joe, the hustler from Frankie's bar.

……………………………

Sam rested his aching head in his hands, going over Joe's words in his mind. It made no sense. It seemed that Joe had abducted Dean to force Sam to use his psychic abilities to find his brother. The idea was so warped, he didn't want to think about what else must be going on in the man's head.

His fear for Dean grew. Joe's sister was missing, and he must be as desperate as his father if he was prepared to go to such lengths. So what would happen if Sam didn't show up as expected? The vision clearly showed that Joe had an ugly temper, and Dean was probably provoking him simply by being Dean. Joe already had cause to resent the elder Winchester, and there was no knowing what he would do if he really lost control.

Sam shuddered. That wasn't going to happen. He tried to forget the fact that, until now, all his visions had been of people dying. He still had nightmares about the vision of Dean's death at Max's house. This time, the vision foretold a brutal beating, but Dean had still been alive. Sam was determined that he would stay that way.

From the quality of light filtering through the windows, the vision would likely become reality around dawn. That gave Sam around seven hours to find his brother.

He had no idea where Dean was being held, but he knew who had taken him. That had to be his starting point. Sam stood, swaying a little as dizziness assailed him. He sat again, closed his eyes until the feeling passed. Then he rummaged in his bag until he found a bottle of aspirin. He probably needed something stronger, but he couldn't afford to take anything that might cloud his judgment. He dry swallowed two pills, then got to his feet and pulled on his jacket. The obvious place to start was Frankie's Bar.

When Sam pushed open the door, he saw Saturday-night partiers crowded the bar. A live band played country music in one corner, a tight knot of people gyrating around them. The pool table was occupied, but when Sam scanned the players and onlookers, he saw no sign of Joe or his family.

Sam took up a position at the bar, leaning against it to get a good view of the whole room. His gaze ranged quickly over the people sitting at tables and standing in small groups around the bar. He recognized a few faces from the night before, but no one he was hoping to see.

He turned back to the bar and saw the bartender eyeing him in an unfriendly fashion. He was a tall man, broad with a square head and thinning hair. The same man who had been there the night before.

"Where's your friend?"

"I don't know," Sam answered truthfully.

"Well, when you see him, tell him he isn't welcome in here."

Sam nodded. "I'm sorry about last night. It was a misunderstanding. Listen, those other guys who were mixing it with us last night – do you know them? The big guy, I think his name's Joe."

The bartender folded his arms. "What d'you want with them?"

Sam read suspicion in the man's tone and body language, and decided that coming clean might be the best way to get answers. He didn't have time to mess around. Dean didn't have time.

"Look, my friend – my brother – isn't with me because he's missing."

The bartender frowned. "What d'you mean, missing?"

"He wasn't at the motel when I got back this evening, and he isn't answering his cell."

The bartender shrugged. "Probably hustling pool at one of the other bars."

Sam shook his head. "Look, it's hard to explain, but I know something's happened to him, and those guys had something to do with it."

The bartender gave him a long, considering look. "That guy, Joe, was spoiling for a fight, I'll give you that. And as for your brother..." He grinned suddenly. "He's good at what he does; that idiot didn't even know he'd been taken. Gotta admit, that was sweet. But I can't help you. I've seen them in here from time to time, but I don't know them. They're not from around here. I think they're from out of state, just pass through from time to time on business."

Sam's heart sank. He'd been clinging to the hope that the men were locals. "Mind if I ask around a bit, see if anyone else knows them?"

The bartender shrugged again. "Knock yourself out. But I don't want any trouble."

"There won't be any trouble," Sam assured him.

He spent the next hour working the room, describing the three men in as much detail as he could remember. But although one or two, like the bartender, had seen Joe and his family around, no one know where they were from.

Eventually Sam gave up, returning to the bar.

"Any luck?" the bartender asked.

Sam shook his head. "No one knows where they're from."

"You could try one of the other bars. The Watering Hole has a pool table."

"Thanks. Look, could you ask anyone who comes in later, just in case?" He picked up a coaster and wrote a number on it. "This is my cell. You can call me if you come up with anything."

The bartender slipped it into his pocket. "I'll do what I can. I hope you find him."

Sam nodded and headed out.

He toured the other four bars, starting with The Watering Hole as the bartender had suggested. The story was the same everywhere. One or two had seen the men around, several had been hustled at pool by Joe and had nothing good to say about him, but no one could tell Sam where they were from. He left his cell phone number at all the bars, with the same plea for information. In desperation, he checked out the other two motels in town, asking the night clerk the same questions, with no result. Eventually, all potential leads exhausted, he returned to his own motel. The clerk's firm shake of his head put the final nail in the coffin of Sam's hopes.

He let himself back into their room with a sinking heart. He had half hoped that he'd return to find the lights blazing and Dean sprawled on the bed, watching some fuzzy black-and-white horror movie. Hoped that the vision and subsequent phone conversation had been some kind of macabre dream. But the room was quiet and dark.

And totally Deanless.

Sam shrugged out of his jacket and sank down on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his head absentmindedly, needing some relief from the relentless pounding behind his temples. As always when he had a vision, he felt wrung out and drained of energy.

Usually Dean was there, fussing in a way he would never allow Sam to reciprocate. Insisting that Sam rest--if not in a bed, then at least in the car while Dean drove them to wherever the vision took them. Dean was always there, looking out for him.

A stab of almost physical pain shot through his gut. Because Dean wasn't here. By now, Dean was almost certainly tied up in some desolate barn, helpless and numb with cold, and Sam had no way of reaching him.

He tried Dean's cell for the hundredth time that night and, as before, it rang twice and then switched to voicemail. He flung it down in frustration. He wasn't sure what to do next. He was tempted to call the sheriff, but that would get him into all sorts of issues regarding Dean's identity. Plus, Dean had only been missing for a few hours. Any sheriff would laugh in his face if he said he was worried that his red-blooded brother hadn't come home on a Saturday night. No one would take him seriously for at least twenty-four hours.

Unless he told them the truth, and for now, that wasn't an option.

His only hope was that one of the bartenders would call, or that he'd have another vision--one that would give him a clue to his brother's location.

Sam lay down reluctantly. Common sense said he should try to sleep for a few hours. He would be no good to Dean if he was too exhausted to think. But how could he sleep when he knew what was going to happen to his brother soon after dawn?

This whole mess was his fault. He should have been more careful back in Fork River. If he'd listened to Dean, if he hadn't let the whole world know he'd had a psychic vision, Joe and his dad would never have found out about him. Dean would be here now, sprawled on his bed, arms linked behind his head, making snarky remarks as he watched some corny old movie.

Dean.

It was ridiculous, but Sam missed his brother already. Much as he often longed for privacy and space while they were on the road, suddenly the motel room seemed empty and lonely without Dean's larger-than-life presence.

Hesitantly, Sam reached between the beds and pulled a worn T-shirt from Dean's bag. He held it, crumpling it in his hands, smelling the familiar combination of aftershave, sweat, and gunpowder that was Dean. He closed his eyes, imagining Dean, willing a vision to come – one that might give him an idea of Dean's location. He concentrated for what felt like hours, until the headache pounding at his temples increased to mammoth proportions and he had to stop.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

He closed his eyes again, still clutching the T-shirt, and fought back despair. Finally, despite everything, exhaustion took its toll, and he drifted into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Psychic Mojo**

Part Three (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

**Sunday 6 am**

He was cold. That was the first thing his senses registered when awareness returned. Dean reached out to wrap the comforter more closely around him, but strangely, his right hand refused to move. Huh. Maybe he was still dreaming, or in that place between asleep and awake where the mind is aware but the body still in a state of paralysis.

He stayed motionless for a few moments, becoming aware of other unusual sensations. His hands felt numb, and shooting pains ran up and down his arms. His head seemed heavy, and when he moved it experimentally, pain knifed through his skull. And he was cold. Had he already noticed that? Well, anyway, he was. Very, very cold.

His sluggish brain added all those facts and concluded that he was probably no longer tucked up snugly in his motel bed.

He reluctantly cracked open his eyes. Hell, maybe he should have been the Stanford student, because he was right. He definitely wasn't in Kansas any more. Rather than a motel room, he was looking at a what seemed to be a large barn. The room was gloomy – the watery, early-morning light filtering in through a few scattered windows insufficient to illuminate more than a small area. The floor was bare soil and mostly clear, barring a few scattered farming implements and a stack of hay bales. One corner, partly hidden in shadows, had been set up as a makeshift mechanic's paradise, complete with a partly restored '30s Dodge pickup, half covered with a dusty tarpaulin.

Dean turned his attention to his physical situation. He was standing near the middle of the room, feet on the ground and arms drawn above his head. Carefully he tilted his head up, grimacing a little as the pain inside his skull increased its tempo, and saw that his wrists were tied together with rope that ran to a hook in a beam about four feet above his head. A tentative tug told him that he wasn't going anywhere soon.

Gingerly lowering his head, he looked down the length of his body, noting a few superficial bruises, but little damage other than the bang on the head. Wait a minute. He had just looked down the length of his _naked_ body.

What the hell?

Someone had stripped him of every single item of clothing. Even his amulet was missing from around his neck, and out of every aspect of his current predicament, that pissed him off the most.

What the hell was going on, and where was Sam?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember how he'd gotten here. The last thing he recalled clearly was leaving Rosie's Diner and heading back to their motel room. After that, everything was a blank. He'd been here some while; that was clear from the way his body was so vehemently protesting the unnatural position in which it was held. But who had brought him here, and why? And where was Sam?

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching from somewhere to his right. A moment later a man walked into view, glanced his way, and stopped abruptly, an almost comical look of surprise on his face.

The man took a few steps closer, into the light. He wasn't much more than a kid, around eighteen, nineteen at the most. His square face had a prominent jaw and slightly too wide nose, and he wore his curly black hair long over his collar. He was around Dean's height and a little on the skinny side.

The moment Dean saw his face, he recognized him as the brother of the hustler, Joe, and his memory began to fill in the blanks with a rush.

Oh, crap.

They must have spotted him in Rosie's Diner and followed him back to the motel. He cursed himself for his stupidity -- the fact that he'd been deep in thought about Sam's visions was no excuse for allowing them to creep up on him. Sam would never let him live this one down. If he'd been captured by a wendigo, or some kind of giant flesh-eating monster, it would have been embarrassing enough. But to allow four ordinary men to get the drop on him? That was just lame.

As he'd turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, a heavy blow to the back of the head had sent him reeling into the room. The blow dulled his reflexes, and he had little chance against four of them, especially in the confined space of the motel room, but he'd fought back hard. He took satisfaction in the fact that at least one of his attackers would be unable to walk straight for a week, while another was probably in the hospital having his jaw wired into place.

He never saw the weapon that finished the fight, but he remembered the sudden, sharp pain in the back of his head and the pattern of the carpet as he fell face forward into oblivion.

Well, that accounted for the pain battering his skull and various other aches that were beginning to make themselves felt.

This kid had been one of his attackers, along with his brother, Joe, and two men Dean vaguely remembered from Frankie's Bar. The kid seemed nervous, looking at him as if he had no idea what to do or say. Dean made a mental note that kidnapping obviously wasn't this kid's usual occupation.

"What's wrong?" he asked, wanting to get in the first word. "Never seen a naked man tied to a beam before?"

The kid's jaw worked, but he said nothing.

Dean locked eyes with him and raised an eyebrow. "Getting a good look, kid? Like what you see?"

As he'd hoped, the kid flushed a deep shade of red and backed away. He turned on his heel and hurried over to the door, pushing it open and calling to someone outside.

A few moments later, the hustler, Joe, walked in, slamming the door behind him. He approached slowly, stopping about six feet from Dean. He looked much as Dean remembered, except – surely he hadn't been quite that tall or broad the other night? He took a certain degree of satisfaction in noting that Joe's nose was red and swollen. He had definitely come off worse in their fight. Of course, he'd been drunk then, his reflexes slowed by alcohol. Now, he seemed to be stone cold sober and, Dean was sure, all the more dangerous for it.

"Well, well, Kale," Joe said. "Pretty Boy's awake. I was beginning to think that knock-out pill we gave him was stronger than I'd thought."

Knock-out pill? More memories returned. He was lying somewhere in total darkness, arms tied behind his back, a gag in his mouth. The somewhere--probably the back of a truck--was moving, and the small space reeked of gas fumes. His head pounded and he felt nauseous. He'd panicked as he felt vomit rising in his throat, kicking his legs against the floor as hard as he could. Rough hands had touched his neck, and the gag was removed.

He'd rolled to one side and thrown up violently, vaguely aware of an angry voice shouting something at him. When he'd finished, he'd turned shakily onto his back. He'd realized then that a blindfold covered his eyes. When he opened his mouth to tell his abductors exactly what he thought of them, a hand grabbed the back of his neck and another held his mouth open, pushing something acrid down his throat. He'd tried to fight, but he was weak and disoriented, and with his arms tied, no match for the man holding him down. Water was poured down his throat, making him gag, but he must have swallowed enough to satisfy his attacker. The hands had released him, allowing his head to drop heavily to the ground. After that, everything was a blank.

Okay, so they'd stuffed a pill down his throat. That would account for the bitter taste in his mouth and the lingering feeling of nausea in his throat. Whatever it was, it had kept him out for what he reckoned was close to eight hours.

He watched Joe, who stood silent now, arms folded, a look of amusement on his face and a sneer on his lips. At that moment, Dean understood why Joe had stripped him naked. It was a power thing. It wasn't enough for this guy to render his captive physically helpless. Joe wanted to humiliate him, to witness his embarrassment. Fine. He wasn't playing ball. He drew himself up straight.

"You know, Joe," he said in a conversational tone, "if you wanted to improve your wardrobe – and I can see why you would-- I could have told you where I buy my gear. 'Cause I think you'll find my jeans are a few sizes too small, if you get my drift."

Joe's brow creased, and he took a step forward. "Shut your mouth."

Dean ignored the warning, nodding at Joe's waistband. "Let's face it, you've let yourself go to seed, haven't— oof!"

A punch to the gut cut off his words and knocked the breath out of him. It was followed by an upper cut to the jaw that snapped his head back. Shit, the man had hands like hams. It would be nice to think Joe might have broken a few knuckles with that punch, but he had a feeling that the guy's hand was going to prove a little more resilient than his own face.

"I told you to shut your mouth, Pretty Boy."

"Yeah, well," Dean gasped, still breathless from the gut-punch, "I've never been real good at doing what I'm told."

Joe hit him in the face again, and Dean's head rocked back, pain blossoming above his left eye. He felt blood begin to trickle down his face.

Damn, that hurt. He eyed the other man warily. He'd learned two things. Joe might have let himself go physically, but he had a vicious right hook and he was easy to provoke.

Joe stepped back and exchanged a few whispered words with his brother. The kid seemed to be arguing, casting anxious glances in Dean's direction. It looked like Kale wasn't too keen on Joe beating their captive. That might be something Dean could later use to his advantage.

He had to find out what this was about. It could be some kind of warped revenge for humiliating Joe at the bar the other night. If so, it seemed a little extreme, and the guy had clearly been watching too many crappy late-night action movies. But he was very afraid it had something to do with Sam and his visions. There was no sign of his brother, but that didn't mean he wasn't being held somewhere close by.

"So, you want to tell me why I'm here?" he asked. "Because much as I'd love to get to know you guys, I have places to be, pool balls to sink and women to—"

"Shut it," Joe shouted, moving forward menacingly. "You put two of my friends in the hospital last night, so don't push me. I don't want to hear any more crap out of you."

"Look, I just want to know—"

This time Joe hit him in the face and followed up immediately with another punishing jab to the gut. The pain was excruciating, and for a few moments Dean's vision clouded, the room spun, and he gasped, unable to catch his breath. When the red haze receded, he looked up and spat blood, running his tongue across the cut to his lower lip. Shit. This guy was a psycho.

Joe stood there, arms folded, that irritating sneer plastered over his face. "If I were you, I wouldn't make me angry."

Dean just couldn't help himself. "Why?" he asked, affecting an innocent expression. "Won't I like you when you're angry?"

Joe's face darkened into thunder and he strode across the room, picking up an object from a bale of hay. Dean felt the first stab of real fear as he realized that he'd pushed the hustler too far. Joe advanced, swinging the weapon, and as hard wood impacted his ribs with sickening force and pain exploded in his side, Dean wondered if he'd ever learn to keep his big mouth shut.


	4. Chapter 4

**Psychic Mojo**

Part Four (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

**Sunday 6:30 am **

Sam slept fitfully, plagued with nightmarish dreams of Dean, beaten and bloody, pain-soaked eyes pleading for help. At 6:30 am, he dragged his weary body out of bed. He couldn't pretend to sleep any longer, not with the knowledge that at this very moment Dean could be enduring the beating Sam had witnessed in his vision.

He tried to push back the fear and the guilt, knowing that he needed to focus all his energy on finding Dean. There would be time for blame and recriminations later, when he had his brother back safe and sound.

He had noted that Frankie's Bar was also a restaurant and opened at 6:45 for breakfast. He intended to be there early to question the breakfast customers. At this point, he couldn't think of any other feasible course of action.

He took a quick shower, running the water cold and allowing it to bring him back to full awareness. Dull pain still pulsed at his temples, and he swallowed a few more Tylenol in an attempt to keep the worse of it at bay.

Twenty minutes later he left the motel, packed his and Dean's bags into the Impala, and drove quickly to Frankie's.

When he arrived, the restaurant was already full of customers taking advantage of the early-morning breakfast special. Spotting him, the guy who'd been tending bar the previous night beckoned him over.

"I was about to call you. Guy over there says he knows those men you're looking for."

Sam's heart surged in hope. Finally, a breakthrough. "Which guy?"

The bartender pointed to a man sitting with three others at a nearby table, a full plate of food in front of him and a newspaper propped up behind it. "George Rawlings. Local business owner. Can I get you something?"

Sam shook his head. The very thought of food made him nauseous. "Thanks for your help. I'll take a coffee to go, if that's okay."

The bartender nodded and went back to his work. Sam walked over to the table.

"George Rawlings?"

One of the men, a thickset, gray-haired man in his fifties, looked up and nodded. "You must be Sam. Barkeep told me you'd be in."

Sam nodded. "I hear you know the people I'm looking for."

"I know them." Rawlings put down his newspaper and indicated for Sam to pull up a chair. "Tom McGraw and his boys. They live over in Beaconville, about three hours' drive from here. Tom owns a business selling farm machinery. He comes down here to do business from time to time. I've gotten to know him quite well over the years."

"What can you tell me about them?"

Rawlings looked at him speculatively. "You planning to cause trouble for Tom? Because he has enough trouble of his own."

Sam shook his head. "I just want to talk to him – and his boys. My brother's missing and I think they may have been the last to see him."

"You think they might have been involved?" He obviously took Sam's silence for assent, for he shook his head decisively. "Not Tom. He's a good man, wouldn't be mixed up in anything shady."

"What about his sons?"

Rawlings fingered his jaw. "His eldest boy, Joe… I wouldn't put anything past him these days. He's been a troublemaker since he was a kid, but recently he's been out of control. Temper on him like you wouldn't believe. The younger son Kale though, he's okay, if you keep him away from Joe."

"I heard Tom's daughter's missing."

Rawlings nodded. "Bad business. She disappeared walking home from school and nothing's been seen of her since. Must be eight or nine months now. Rocked the town -- nothing like that's ever happened in Beaconville before."

"Can you give me an address for Tom?"

Rawlings shook his head. "I can give you his office address and number, but that's the warehouse and it wouldn't be open, it being Sunday. But if you head on up to Beaconville, you're bound to find someone who can help you. It's a small town, someone will know Tom."

Sam stood up, holding out his hand. "Thanks. I appreciate the help."

Rawlings took the proffered hand and shook it firmly. "No problem. I hope you find your brother."

_So do I,_ Sam thought vehemently as he paid for his coffee and made his way quickly back to the Impala. Three hours. If he put his foot down, he should be able to make it in two.

**Sunday, 8 am**

This time, memory and awareness came crashing back immediately. His head still pounded, his face was sore and his whole body ached and throbbed. A vicious, stabbing pain in his right side indicated that some ribs were bruised or cracked. Worst of all, he really needed to pee.

He could hear voices, and he kept his head down and his eyes closed, hoping to pick up some information before they realized he was awake.

"Shit, Joe, this wasn't the way it was supposed to go down! You said we'd just grab him, hold him until his brother finds him. You never said anything about beating the crap out of him."

"What's the matter, you feeling sorry for Pretty Boy? He deserved a beating for what he did to Frank and Johnny."

"Yeah, but…

"Don't be such a wuss, Kale. I made sure I didn't hurt him too bad – yet."

"He looks pretty beat up to me, Joe."

"Just whose side are you on? We're doing this for Maddy, remember?"

"I know, but Joe, what if his brother doesn't come for him?"

"He'll come."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Just trust me, Kale. I'm going out to take watch. Stay here and keep an eye on him."

"All right. But… don't hurt him any more, okay, Joe?"

Dean heard footsteps heading in his direction.

"Joe? What're you doing?" Kale's voice, raised in alarm.

"You know what, bro? I think Pretty Boy's holding out on us. I'm not sure he's as fast asleep as he'd like us to think."

Crap. Dean knew he'd reacted when he'd heard Kale mention Sam. The footsteps came closer, and he felt stale breath on his neck. Then an agonizing pain in his left nipple had his head snapping up and a gasp torn from his lips. He opened his eyes to see that Joe stood grinning in front of him, a small knife held in his right hand. Dean looked down and saw a thin line of blood trail down his chest.

"Next time I'll take it off, so don't mess with me."

"You got something against the whole human race, or is it just me?"

Joe grinned. "For now, just you. Aren't you lucky?"

Dean resorted to a glower, which did nothing to dampen Joe's sudden good mood.

"I guess you want to know why you're here?" Joe asked casually.

"Been wondering," Dean answered, just as casually. He didn't want Joe to know how desperate he was to find out what was going on and what they'd done with Sam.

"It's simple, really. The other night your brother was less than obliging when our Dad politely asked him to help find our sister. So we thought we'd give him some incentive to change his mind."

Dean tried to compute this. "You kidnapped me to get Sam to change his mind?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but that's crap. It won't work. Sam can't help you."

"So you both keep saying. And I still don't believe you. But just in case you're right, we're gonna make sure he's the real deal before we waste any more time on him."

Dean frowned. "I don't get it."

"Figures. You don't look too bright. Think about it, Pretty Boy. Sam knows we're holding you. All he has to do is use his psychic mojo to figure out where you are. If he turns up here – bingo! Proof that Psychic Sammy's the real deal."

Dean stared at him. "That has to be the most stupid plan I've ever heard."

Joe's expression darkened. Kale put a warning hand on his arm. Joe shook it off, but he stood his ground. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "You two seem real close. I can't see him sitting in his cozy motel room not giving a damn about you. He'll be here. And when he is, we still have you as insurance to make sure he helps us out. It's a good plan."

"Yeah, well, you'd think so. You clearly have the IQ of a brain-dead hamster."

Joe took a threatening step forward, but again, Kale stopped him. "He's just trying to rile you, Joe."

"Want to know what's wrong with your plan?" Dean went on. It was painful to talk around his swollen lip. The split must have opened again-- he could taste the metallic tang of blood and feel wet warmth trickling down his chin. "One, even if Sam could find me, he isn't stupid enough to rush in with no backup. Two, he doesn't have any psychic abilities, so it isn't going to work anyway."

"I could probably force you to tell me the truth," Joe said. "But I don't need to – not yet. Either your brother'll turn up, or he won't."

"And if he doesn't?"

Joe grinned. "Haven't decided yet."

"And if he does?"

"All we want is for him to find Maddy."

"What if I'm telling you the truth, and he can't?"

"I don't think that's an option." Joe turned away abruptly, as if bored with the conversation. "Enough questions. Kale, keep an eye on him. I'll be outside, waiting for Psychic Sammy."

Dean watched Joe as he headed for the door, noticing for the first time the outline of a bulky object tucked under the back of his shirt. An object that looked suspiciously like a gun. He frowned. The thought of Joe with a gun wasn't a pretty one.

Dean watched Kale flick him a troubled glance and then move away to sit down on a bale of hay. He opened a laptop computer, and soon his head was bent over the screen.

Dean closed his eyes, running back over the conversation in his head. The plan was so stupid he could hardly believe it. But that was good, in a way, because he wanted Sam as far away from Psycho-Joe as possible, particularly as he now knew Joe was armed with more than just his fists. Fortunately, there wasn't a chance in hell that Sam was going to turn up. He'd never been able to conjure a vision to order, and it was unlikely he'd start now. Which meant that the only way he would find Dean was by doing it the hard way, discovering who had taken him, and where. And that was a long shot.

With Sam safely out of the picture, he could concentrate on finding a way to get himself out of this situation. Problem was, he was currently coming up blank. It was clear that Joe was determined to see this through, and he didn't relish the prospect of hours, or even days tied in this position, with probably more beatings to come. For he had no doubt that the longer Joe was made to wait, the angrier he would become.

He was dealing with a psycho and a yes-man who couldn't even look his captive in the eye. Kale was the obvious weak link, and he knew that was the place to start. He'd have to work on him, try to convince him that this whole scheme was going to backfire. He'd wait a while and then try to strike up a conversation.

The painful pressure in his bladder brought his attention back to his physical situation. Loath as he was to admit it, he had reached the point at which he could no longer hold back, and with a feeling of disgust and shame, he let go, cringing at the sensation of hot urine trickling down his leg. He knew this was just one more way to humiliate him, and he was just glad that Joe wasn't there to witness his weakness.

**Sunday, 9 am **

The road ran straight as an arrow through seemingly endless plains of nothing and he might have been alone in the world for all the other traffic he encountered.

As soon as he had passed the town limits sign, Sam had floored the gas and the Impala roared in response, seemingly as eager as he was to find Dean. He tried to concentrate his mind on what he was going to do when he reached his destination and determinedly pushed aside images of what might happen to his brother in the meantime. He held on to the thought that it was unlikely that Joe would kill Dean--if he really believed that Sam could find his brother using psychic abilities, it would he self defeating if the object of the search were already dead. What worried him most was that Joe would grow more angry and impatient the longer he had to wait, and that he would take this frustration out on Dean.

This time, he had a few seconds' warning before the vision struck. A giveaway flickering at the edges of his vision caused him to slam on the brakes and steer onto the side of the road. He turned the key and the engine shuddered to a halt just as the pain struck, slicing and dicing his brain into tiny pieces.

He was back in the barn. Dean still hung suspended from the roof beam and Joe stood over him, mouth locked in a sadistic grin, holding something against Dean's chest. Dean's face was contorted, mouth twisted in a rictus of agony, his body convulsing like a marionette on a string. Joe removed the object and stood back. For long moments, Dean's body continued to shudder. Sam saw that Joe was holding a cylindrical object around twelve inches long with two metal prongs at one end. Joe stepped forward again, and Sam watched helplessly as he held the cylinder against the inside of Dean's right thigh. Dean's body arched and his head flew back, mouth open in a scream as electric current surged through his body.

The vision cut out abruptly. Sam lurched back to the present and his eyes flew open. His hands were locked around the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grip. The Impala was stationary, engine quiet, and he could vaguely hear birdsong through the open window. Nothing had changed in those few moments except that he had just seen a monster torturing his brother with a cattle prod.

Oh, God. Dean.

Instantly his mind transported him back six months. He raced down the cellar steps to find Dean lying still in a tangled heap. He pulled his unconscious brother into his arms, knowing instinctively that this wasn't an injury Dean would be able to laugh off. He was in the hospital, reeling from the news that Dean had only months to live. He was in Dean's hospital room, listening to his brother calmly accept that his time had come.

No. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not again.

The familiar nausea struck, and he flung open the car door, barely making it to his knees before beginning to wretch. There was very little in his stomach, and he found himself dry heaving, knowing that the sickness was caused as much by the sight of his brother's agony as the pain still slicing through his head.

Finally, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pulled himself to his feet and got back into the car. With shaking fingers, he opened a bottle of water he'd left on the seat beside him and took a few mouthfuls, leaning out of the car to spit until the taste of vomit faded.

Then he sat for a minute, eyes closed. He had no desire to recall the vision, but he made himself relive it, searching for any details that might give him a clue as to Dean's whereabouts. Everything was the same. The barn was brighter than before – sunlight was streaming in through the windows - and he opened his eyes, looking up to note that the clouds were beginning to disperse and the sun threatening to break through. Assuming Dean was being held in this area, it was likely that the events he had witnessed would take place sometime that afternoon.

Panic threatening to overwhelm him, he pulled out his cell and dialed Dean's number, more from habit than because he expected an answer. To his shock, it was picked up.

"Hi there, Sam."

Sam felt rage building inside him. "You bastard. I want to talk to my brother."

"Have you worked out where he is yet?"

"Let me talk to my brother. Now."

A sigh. "Okay. Dean, your brother wants a word."

There was silence for a moment, and then Sam heard Dean's voice. "Sam, don't try to find me, get the hell away--" Sam heard the thud of a blow, and the words cut off with a grunt of pain.

"Dean!"

"Happy? If you want your brother to stay in one piece, use your mojo to find him."

"I can't!" Sam was desperate to get the fool to understand. "Listen to me, it doesn't work like that! I can't just find someone by thinking about them. The visions I get – they're random, I don't have any control over them."

"I really hope that isn't true, Sammy. Because I'm getting a mite impatient here. And when I get impatient, I start looking for things to hurt, you know what I mean?"

"If you hurt him again, I'll--"

"'Bye, Sammy."

"No!" The cell phone went dead. Sam redialed furiously, but this time voicemail picked up. He flung the cell in anger. "Sonuvabitch!"

His heart was hammering. He tried to push away the fear and anger and concentrate on breathing slowly and deeply. After a few minutes, his heart rate slowed and his head cleared.

He turned the key and revved the engine. He wasn't going to let this happen. He wasn't going to let this maniac torture his brother. He was going to find Dean before that happened.

He had to get to Beaconville, and he had to get there fast.


	5. Chapter 5

**Psychic Mojo**

Part Five (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

**Sunday 11 am**

Sam drove wearily down the leafy main street of the small town of Beaconville. There had been no time to research the place on the internet, but driving over the brow of a hill on his approach had given him a good view of the town, sprawled out in a valley between rolling hills. He had driven through an industrial estate and extensive suburbs before reaching the small downtown area, which seemed to center on Main Street.

He just hoped that Rawlings was right and that Tom McGraw was well known in this town.

He parked the Impala and got out, glancing up at the sky. It was clear and blue and the sun was shining brightly. There was a very slight chill in the air, but not enough to reach for his jacket. He hoped that it wasn't too cold in the barn where Dean was being held.

He walked along the sidewalk, passing a hairdressing salon, a pharmacy and a closed restaurant. A few blocks further along he came to a diner with a cheerful sign offering an all-day breakfast. Peering through the window, he noted that it was full and decided it was as good a place to start as any. No one looked up as he went in; the crowded room was filled with people intent on their own business.

He walked up to the counter and sat on the one remaining stool. After a moment a middle-aged waitress with a cheery smile wandered over, pad in hand. "Help you, hon?"

"Could I get a coffee to go?"

"Sure. Milk in that?"

"Black's good, thanks, and can you put in an extra shot?"

"Sure I can't fix you anything to eat? We have some really good pie."

Sam opened his mouth to say "No," and hesitated. He still felt slightly nauseous, and his stomach was knotted in tension, but he was also feeling a little light-headed and knew that he should eat something to keep his strength up. "Can you get me a ham salad sandwich, hold the mayo?"

"Coming right up hon."

He waited impatiently until she returned with the plastic cup and wrapped sandwich. As he paid, she asked, "New in town?"

"Just passing through."

"Thought I hadn't seen you before."

"Actually," he said, seeing his opening, "I'm looking for an old friend of my father's. He runs a farm machinery outfit in town. Name of Tom McGraw."

She smiled. "Everyone around here knows Tom."

Sam felt dizzy with relief. "Any idea where I can find him? I don't pass through this way very often, thought it would be nice to surprise him."

She considered. "It's Sunday, so he won't be at his office. He's probably at home. He lives over on Manderley. Head north out of town, take a left after the children's playground. The house is near the end on the left – there's a big maple tree in the yard, you can't miss it."

Sam picked up his coffee and sandwich and hopped off the stool. "Thanks a lot."

He headed out in the direction she'd indicated, driving one-handed while he munched on the sandwich. When he realized he was actually hungry, he felt guilty somehow. How could he be enjoying his lunch while Dean was held captive, alone and in pain? His stomach rebelled at the thought, and he stuffed the remainder of the sandwich back into the bag and sipped scalding coffee instead. It would do nothing for the ever-present headache, but he needed the adrenalin rush the caffeine would provide.

Turning right onto Manderley, he coasted slowly down the wide road. It was clear he was in an affluent suburb. All the houses were set back from the sidewalk and had well-tended, sculptured lawns. It seemed that McGraw's business had done well for him. Sam knew at once when he'd found the right house – the maple tree was enormous and the only one in sight.

There was one vehicle in the driveway, a two-year-old red Buick Century. Sam drove past, parked fifty yards further on, and sat for a moment, considering his plan of action. The sensible move would be to study the house for a while, try to work out how many people were home. But he was confident the barn where Joe was holding Dean was nowhere near this neighborhood, and he had no time to waste.

He got out of the car, popped the trunk and selected Dean's favored Colt .45. Pushing the gun into the waistband of his jeans for easy access, he pulled his shirt down to hide the weapon and slammed the trunk. Taking a deep breath, he walked back to the house, marched up to the porch and used the ornate brass knocker to hammer loudly on the door.

After a moment, he saw the outline of a person through the frosted glass and the door opened to reveal the man Sam now knew was Tom McGraw. Sam barely noted the surprised recognition on McGraw's face as he pushed past the man into the hallway.

"What the hell?" McGraw began, but Sam cut him off.

"I want to know where my brother is, and I want to know now."

"What?" McGraw took a step back. "What are you talking about?"

Sam took a step toward him. "You know damned well what I'm talking about. My brother was kidnapped last night, and I know you had something to do with it."

McGraw shook his head. "Son, I have no idea what you're talking about. You're saying your brother's missing?"

"Don't call me son!" Sam snapped, feeling the pent-up anger resurface. "Since your son Joe is the one who took Dean, I find it hard to believe that you don't know anything about it."

"Joe?" McGraw frowned. "Look, I honestly don't know what you're talking about-- you're going to have to believe me on that. Now, I can call the police and have you removed from my house – or you can come in and sit down and tell me rationally what this is all about."

Sam scanned McGraw's face, searching for a lie or a trap, but he saw neither. What he did see was a man who genuinely had no clue what was going on, although a shadow had crossed his face at the mention of Joe. Sam was willing to bet that McGraw's mind was currently working overtime, wondering if his son could possibly have done what Sam was accusing him of.

Well, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by getting McGraw on his side. He nodded shortly and followed the older man to a large kitchen with a family-sized table at the centre. McGraw nodded to a chair.

"Take a seat. Can I get you a coffee?"

Sam didn't understand how the man could be so calm. "Haven't you heard a word I've said? My brother's missing and you're offering me coffee?"

"Son, sit down." The tone was authoritative, and for a moment sounded exactly like his Dad. Sam found himself in a chair without noticing that he'd obeyed.

McGraw sat down opposite him. "Tell me what happened. Start by explaining why someone would abduct your brother."

Sam rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. "Yesterday I left Dean in Georgetown and drove down to Jackville to do some… research. When I got back around ten, there was no sign of Dean in the motel. I haven't seen him since."

McGraw frowned. "Well, I'm sure there's a rational explanation—"

There was no way around this. He was going to have to tell McGraw the truth and trust that the man didn't write him off as a freak or a downright liar.

"Look, I _know_ what's happened to my brother because… because I saw it in a vision."

McGraw's face hardened. "You told me I had the wrong person, that you aren't psychic."

Sam leaned forward, desperate to get this man to understand. "That night, when I told you I couldn't help you – it was the truth. I can't help you. But I do have visions. About six months ago, I started getting really bad nightmares, mostly about people dying. I…" he swallowed. "I had a nightmare about my girlfriend, and she died, exactly the way I'd seen it in my dream." He paused, but McGraw said nothing, simply gestured to him to go on.

"I realized then that my nightmare was a vision--a premonition, I guess. Since then it's happened half a dozen times. But you need to understand, I have no control over the visions. There doesn't seem to be a pattern, they're totally random. I can't make them happen, not by thinking about a person or holding certain objects. It doesn't work that way. When I said I can't help you, I was telling the truth."

McGraw regarded him in silence for a moment. "Why didn't you just tell me all this the other night?"

Sam hesitated. He wasn't sure he was ready to tell McGraw the whole story, but on the other hand, he had to make a decision whether or not to trust this man. Dean's life might depend on it. He'd heard nothing but good about McGraw from everyone he'd talked to. And so far, all the man had done was ask for his help.

"My brother and I," he began, "we don't have a – conventional – job. We –" He shrugged. Might as well just come out with it. "We hunt ghosts, evil spirits, monsters, that kind of thing."

Silence. To McGraw's credit, he didn't flip out. "You mean – you're professional ghost hunters?"

"Not exactly. Not the way you've seen on TV. There are all sorts of things in this world that most people never see or know about. We hunt them down and destroy them."

"And just how did you get into this 'line of work'?"

"It's kind of the family business. It's a long story, and I don't have time to get into it right now."

McGraw blew out a breath. "Okay. I'll buy it for now. You still haven't told me why you think my son has your brother."

"I told you I got back to the motel and Dean was gone. I wasn't worried at first, but then… I had a vision." He hesitated.

"Go on."

"I saw Dean. He was in large room, looked like some kind of barn. He was strung up, hanging from a beam in the ceiling. Then I saw your son Joe." He paused, looking directly at McGraw. "He was beating the crap out of my brother, Mr. McGraw."

McGraw's jaw tightened. "Go on."

"I called Dean's cell and someone else answered. I think it was Joe, but I can't be sure. He told me that if I wanted my brother back, I'd have to find him using my 'psychic mojo.'"

The older man ran a hand through his hair. "That's insane."

"You're telling me."

"And you're sure it was Joe you saw?"

Sam nodded. "I don't have any reason to lie to you, Sir."

"I don't… I don't understand what the boy's thinking."

Sam was silent.

"And you didn't see anyone else?"

Sam shook his head.

"How did you find me?"

"I went back to the bar where we'd met you, found someone who'd done business with you."

McGraw nodded. "We go down to Georgetown once or twice a year. I have a few clients there."

"This guy was a client – Rawlings?"

"George Rawlings? Yes, I've done a lot of business with George. So you drove to Beaconville and asked around until you found me?"

"That about covers it. Except that on the way, I had another vision. And this time, your son was torturing my brother with a cattle prod."

"He was _what_?"

"I think you heard me." Sam had managed to stay calm up until now, but the memory of Dean's face, contorted in agony, brought the anger boiling to the surface. "I'm not sure if it's happened yet. My visions are always of the future – usually, the near future, but it varies. Now do you understand the urgency?"

Fingering his beard thoughtfully, McGraw asked, "These visions – they always come true?"

"Unless we can stop them," Sam stated bluntly. He didn't mention that his visions were usually of violent death. He hadn't worked out himself why his visions of Dean were different.

"I called Dean's cell again, and this time your son threatened to hurt Dean if I didn't find him soon. And I get the feeling Joe isn't afraid to make good on his threat."

McGraw ran his hands through his hair again. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Joe's always been wild, ever since he was a little kid. But he was never really violent, not even when he went through a bad patch when my wife died. Recently, though, he's changed. He drinks too much, and his temper is out of control. He's been in trouble a number of times for fighting. It started when Maddy, my daughter, disappeared. Joe loved her… We all did."

"I'm sorry about your daughter, Mr. McGraw," Sam said sincerely. "I really am. But right now I need to find my brother, and I'm afraid that your son is so convinced I can help find her, he'll take desperate measures to make me cooperate."

McGraw nodded. "I'll be honest with you, Sam--it is Sam, isn't it?"

Sam nodded.

"When my son is out of control, there's no knowing what he'll do. I'll do everything I can to help you find them."

"Thank you. Do you have any idea where he might have taken Dean?"

McGraw considered. "Can't be his own place. He shares an apartment with my younger son, Kale. Tell me everything you remember about this barn."

Sam closed his eyes, concentrating. "Large room, no furniture, wooden floor. There's some farm machinery laying around, some bales of hay. Shelving along one wall and some kind of equipment piled in a corner. There's a large object in the shadows in another corner, but it's too dark to see what it is."

"That's all?"

Sam opened his eyes. "Yeah."

"Well, you've just described every damned barn in the area. And there are hundreds of them."

"Okay." Sam rubbed his fists into his temples. His headache had returned full force. "Does Joe have any friends who'd have a building like that? Relatives? Anyone you know who might be away?"

McGraw nodded. "I'll make a list. We can work our way through it, one by one. But first, let me try calling Joe."

Sam offered McGraw his cell. The older man took it and punched in a number. After a moment, he shook his head. "Voicemail. I'll try Kale." He punched in another number and soon shook his head again. "No answer. I'm worried that Joe's got his brother mixed up in this. Kale's a good kid, but he follows Joe like a puppy."

He looked at Sam consideringly. "Sam, why haven't you gone to the police?"

Sam shrugged. "Dean hasn't been missing for twenty-four hours. I can't tell them I know what's happened to him, and I can't give them his identity – either his real one or a false one. If they ran it through a database – well, let's just say that in our business, we don't always get on too well with the law."

McGraw looked him in the eye. "Listen, I'm sorry about what my son's done. It's wrong, I know that. But… I need to know that when we find Dean, you won't go to the police with this."

Sam held his gaze. "Your son deserves to be put away for what he's doing to my brother," he said coldly. "But as I just told you, we can't involve the police. There'd be too many questions. I just want Dean back, and we'll be on our way."

McGraw nodded. "Good enough. Let's go. I'll work on the list in the car, make a few calls. We'll find them, Sam."


	6. Chapter 6

**Psychic Mojo**

Part Six (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.) 

**Sunday, 12 noon**

His arms ached, constant pain shooting through cramped muscles. His face throbbed, his body hurt, and every time he breathed pain lanced through his damaged ribs.

Dean forced himself to stand straight even though he was sure his legs would have folded under him had his arms been free. He was still cold, but not unbearably; the temperature in the barn had warmed a little thanks to the sun shining outside. The Weather Channel had forecast storms, though, and he knew that the climate could change quickly in this part of the country at this time of year.

He estimated several hours had passed since Joe had forced him to talk to Sam on the cell. He recalled the frantic tone to Sam's voice, and something Sam had said bugged him. "If you hurt him again…" How did Sam know they'd hurt him at all? Joe hadn't said anything, and Dean had tried hard to keep the pain out of his voice. Obviously he hadn't tried hard enough. Sam was a perceptive little freak, and he knew Dean better than anyone. Shit. If Sam thought he was hurt, he'd turn over heaven and earth to find him and probably do something stupid.

Joe was outside, presumably keeping watch for Sam, and had left his brother to keep an eye on Dean. Dean had tried and failed to engage him in conversation. However, it was clear that Kale was getting more and more edgy, so it might be worth one more try.

"Hey, Kale," he called to the kid, who was sitting on a bale of hay with his laptop out. "Do you realize how much trouble you're going to be in when the police catch up with you?"

Kale looked up and frowned.

"The police?" Dean prompted. "The people with uniforms and handcuffs and nice little cells to lock you up in? What--did you think my brother'd just stand around wringing his hands? Sam isn't stupid, he'll have worked out who's taken me and gone to the police. They'll probably be along any time now."

Kale stood up and took a few tentative steps towards him. "But Joe said--"

"Joe's an idiot. He deserves to be put away, but I don't think you do. Kale, I understand that you want to get your sister back. I'm sorry she's missing, but I'm telling you the truth here. My brother can't help you."

"You're lying. We read the newspaper report."

Dean decided to take a risk and tell Kale the truth. "I'll be honest with you, Kale. Sam does have some kind of psychic ability. He has visions sometimes, but he can't control them, and there's no way he can find someone just because he wants to."

"He found those miners in Fork River," Kale said stubbornly.

"Yes, he did." Dean forced himself to keep his voice calm and light, when really he wanted to scream at the stupid jerk. "But he didn't ask for that vision – it just happened. Kale, I swear to you, I'm telling you the truth. That's why we told your Dad we couldn't help. It wasn't that Sam didn't want to. It was because he can't."

Kale was silent, and Dean could see that finally his words were sinking in. Time to put on the pressure.

"Kale, I know this wasn't your idea. Why don't you let me go before this goes too far? I'll tell them you were just doing what Joe told you, you won't have to--"

Dean swore under his breath when the door opened and Joe walked back into the room, holding something in his hand.

"Kale. Pretty Boy behaving?"

"Joe," Kale said quickly, his glance flicking between Dean and his brother. "I've been thinking. Maybe this has gone too far. What if his brother can't find us? What are we going to do then?"

Joe scowled. "_You've_ been thinking, or has our guest been putting thoughts into your head?"

Joe walked up to Dean, coming to a halt a few feet away. He smiled. "Is that what's been happening, Pretty Boy?"

Dean shrugged. "Kid needs a better role model, Joe. He's never going to succeed in life if he's learning from an asswipe like you."

Joe's face darkened, and Dean tried not to flinch as the big man raised his fist. But the blow never came. Instead, Joe smiled and turned to his brother. "Kale, you have to trust me, little brother. I know what I'm doing. You want to see Maddy again, don't you?"

"Course I do."

"Then trust me." He continued talking to his brother, but turned back to face Dean. "I think it's time to try a little test. Remember the interviews with those psychics, Kale? The ones who said they can feel those they're looking for more clearly when they're in emotional distress – or in pain?"

Kale nodded again.

"We're gonna find out if our Sammy is one of those people."

He raised the object he'd been holding in his left hand. Dean quickly identified it as a cattle prod and felt a shiver of fear run through him. He knew that prods delivered a lower shock than a tazer, and that it probably wouldn't kill him, but found little comfort in that fact.

"You gotta be kidding me." He smirked, dredging up a sarcastic tone, not willing to let Joe see how afraid he really was. "Dude, you've been watching too much Oprah. All those psychics she gets on that show? Frauds, the lot of them, just making the most of their one chance at the limelight."

"What's the matter, Pretty Boy. You scared?"

"Of you?" Dean snickered. "Not in this lifetime."

Joe smiled. "It isn't me you want to be scared of. It's my little toy here."

Kale put a hand on Joe's arm. "Joe, you can't use that on him!"

Joe pulled roughly away. "Watch me. Let's see what this baby can do."

He pressed the prod against Dean's belly and Dean tried not to react to as the twin electrodes bit into his skin.

He swallowed, eyes on Joe's hand, bracing himself for the moment his tormentor turned on the current. In a strange, detached way he wondered if the pain would be anything like the agony he'd felt when the current from the tazer had shot through him.

Then blinding, white-hot pain blazed through his body, and he couldn't hold back the scream torn from his throat. Vaguely he heard someone shout something unintelligible, but he was lost in a world of hurt.

When it stopped, it took his abused flesh a few moments to catch on. The pain ebbed, but tremors continued to run through his body. He slowly lifted his head and shot a glare of hatred at the two men before him.

"Whew! How about that hotshot?" Joe grinned. "More fun than I'd expected. And with the few modifications I made – that's some cool baby!"

Kale grabbed Joe's arm. "Joe, you gotta stop. You're gonna kill him!"

Good point, Kale, Dean thought through the red haze that was fogging his brain.

Joe shook his brother off roughly. "It won't kill him. It'll hurt like hell, though. We need to get Psychic Sammy's attention, don't we?"

"But Joe…"

Joe pushed Kale aside. This time there was no warning. He simply stepped up, held the prod against Dean's chest, and hit the button. Dean's body arched in response, sending stabbing pains of protest down his arms. He bit the inside of his lip trying not to scream this time, but a strangled yell was wrought from him regardless, the intensity of the pain needing an outlet. The current stopped, leaving Dean panting for breath. He looked up into Joe's sadist smile and his eyes widened in an undisguised plea for mercy as Joe pushed the prongs against the inside of his right thigh and hit the button once more.

**Sunday, 2 pm**

Sam was getting desperate. They had visited six of the eight possible locations McGraw had identified, including Joe's apartment in case he'd left any clues, and come up with nothing. McGraw had called all of Joe's friends he could think of, but he admitted that he didn't even know the names of some of the less desirable crowd Joe had been running with of late.

They had just left an old, abandoned windmill. It had been a long shot, McGraw admitted, and sure enough, the interior had been nothing like the room Sam had seen in his visions. He was getting more and more frustrated and angry. What was the point of having visions if they didn't tell him where to go? He'd always been able to work out where the events in the vision were taking place. Why couldn't he now, when Dean's life was at stake?

He left the building and walked quickly to a nearby fence. He punched a post hard, relishing the pain that flared in his fist, and blinked back tears of frustration.

He heard McGraw walk up behind him. When the man laid a hand on his shoulder, he shrugged it away, whirling to face him.

"Don't touch me!"

"Sam—"

Sam swallowed, trying to blink away the telltale salty water in his eyes. "Your maniac son has my brother. You'll have to forgive me if I'm not too touchy-feely right now."

"I know how you feel—"

"No, you don't," Sam retorted fiercely. "You have no idea how I feel. My brother – he's all I have. He's spent his whole life looking out for me--he's almost gotten himself killed for me more times than I can count. And now he's in this mess because of me, and when he needs me, I can't deliver. So don't tell me you know how I feel."

"Sam," McGraw said, and his voice was gentle. "You're right. I don't know anything about your relationship with your brother. But I do know what it's like to lose someone." His face clouded, and Sam suddenly felt ashamed. Consumed by his worry over Dean, he'd forgotten that this whole situation had come about because McGraw's daughter was missing.

He took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about your daughter, I really am. It's just…"

"I know," McGraw said. "It's all right. We're not going to find Maddy today, but we will find your brother. We're going to keep looking, okay?"

Sam nodded. At that moment pain speared through his skull as a vision hit and he was back in the barn. Dean was still suspended from the roof beam, shivering, head hanging loosely on his chest. Numerous bruises stood out starkly against his pale skin.

Joe was standing nearby and this time, he wasn't alone. Sam instantly recognized his companion as Joe's younger brother. The two were clearly arguing. After a moment, Joe shook off the boy's arm. He picked up the cattle prod and held it against Dean's side. Dean slowly lifted his head, his bruised and bloody face lined with pain and exhaustion. Yet Sam could see the defiance in his eyes. Joe turned on the current, Dean's body convulsed and he threw his head back, face etched in agony.

Kale ran forward and pulled hard on Joe's free arm. Joe dropped the prod and rounded on his brother with a right hook that caught Kale's jaw and knocked him off his feet. He fell backward, and his flailing boot struck a lamp sitting on the floor. It tipped, setting fire to a bale of hay. Within seconds, the bale went up like an inferno.

Kale scrambled to his feet, and the brothers looked on in obvious horror as the fire spread quickly to neighboring bales. Sam saw Joe mouth something at his brother. Kale gestured toward Dean, hanging helpless less than six feet from the fire. Joe shook his head, grabbed his brother's arm and forcibly dragged him out of Sam's view. Sam watched in shock as smoke blew in Dean's direction. Dean began to cough as the loose straw on the floor near his bare feet began to smolder.

The vision snapped out as fast as it had come, and Sam found himself on his knees, holding hard to a fencepost. He could feel a hand on his shoulder, and he was sure someone was speaking, but he couldn't make out the words.

He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat and forced himself not to throw up. He became aware that he was shaking, and the urgent words began to make sense.

"Sam! Sam, are you all right? What the hell happened just then?"

He put out a hand, and McGraw hauled him to his feet. Sam leaned back against the post for a moment until the dizziness faded. Oh God. Dean. This couldn't be happening. He was going to lose his brother to a fire, just as he'd lost his mother and Jessica. And this time it wasn't even The Demon. Just a fucked-up psychopath who was too much of a coward to do anything but save his own worthless hide. The thought of Joe making a run for it and leaving Dean to die a horrible death was almost more than Sam could bear.

McGraw must have seen the horror in his eyes. "Sam, what did you see?"

"A fire. Your sons – they ran out, left Dean to die."

"Kale was there?"

Sam nodded.

McGraw shook his head. "No. Even Joe wouldn't…"

"I saw it," Sam snapped. "That's what's going to happen if we don't find them."

"All right." McGraw took a deep breath. "Think, Sam. Did you see any more of the barn? Anything at all that was different?"

Sam closed his eyes, tried to concentrate. It had been lighter this time--he could see farther into the room. The light was coming from two hurricane lamps – one on the floor and one hanging from a hook in a beam. The light of the hanging lamp illuminated parts of the room previously shrouded in darkness. He looked into the dark corner where the large object stood, and this time recognized it as a truck.

He opened his eyes. "There's a truck, in the corner of the barn."

"What kind of truck?"

"Pickup. Some classic model. Someone's been working on it; there are tools all over the floor."

"What color is it?"

"Bright red."

McGraw grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's it, Sam! That's my brother's pickup. He's been working on it for years, always leaves his tools out. He has a place about an hour's drive from here. I'm sorry I didn't think of it before, I assumed Joe would take Dean somewhere nearer town."

Sam was running for the car before McGraw had stopped speaking.


	7. Chapter 7

**Psychic Mojo**

Part Seven (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.) 

S**unday, 3:30 pm**

This really wasn't funny any more. Okay, it had never been funny per se, but earlier he'd been convinced he could talk himself out of this mess. Now, he wasn't sure. Joe was a man whose anger clouded his reason and he was beyond rational judgment.

Dean's biggest concern now was that Sam might actually find him. His brother was smart. If he'd found someone who could identify Joe from the bar, he had half a chance of figuring out where Joe lived. Of course, he had no idea where Joe had taken him, but Joe didn't seem the creative type. It was probably somewhere obvious.

The thought of Sam turning up here filled him with dread. Sam wasn't stupid, but he would be desperate, and desperation led to carelessness. It was also entirely possible that Sam would simply turn up and offer himself in exchange for his brother. Dean felt his chest tighten at that thought. He wasn't worth it. Sam was the clever one, the one with a gift, the one with a future. Much as he tried to believe that one day they were going to be a family again, he didn't believe it. Not really. He knew that sooner or later Sam would go back to college and become a hotshot lawyer. And then Sam would slowly but surely fade out of his life.

But that didn't matter, so long as Sam was safe. Dean had devoted his whole life to making sure his younger brother stayed safe, and he wasn't about to stop now. Yes, he was exhausted, he was cold and he was hurting--badly. Yes, he was desperate enough that he might eventually resort to begging Joe to let him go. But he'd never accept freedom at Sam's expense.

Never.

Again, it came back to Kale. The kid was his only chance. Kale was clearly in over his head, and Dean was sure it wouldn't take much to pull him under.

It must be mid-afternoon by now. The sun had moved, leaving their half of the room in darkness and lighting previously dark corners. Joe had found a couple of hurricane lamps, hanging one from a post and leaving the other on the floor. They gave light, but little warmth. Joe was outside again, although he'd left the door open so he could hear what was going on inside. Dean wasn't the only one who recognized Kale was at breaking point.

"Kale," he said, keeping his voice low. "Kale, you have to let me go." He tried to sound authoritative, but the words came out suspiciously weak and wavering.

Kale glanced at him. "Can't do that. You know I can't do that."

"Are you that afraid of your brother?"

"You've seen what he's like when he's mad. And anyway, he's right. Keeping you here is the only chance we have to get Maddy back."

"You can't still believe that. Joe's kidding himself. I told you, Sam can't find me through a vision. But if you don't let me go, what do you think Joe's going to do when he finally works that out for himself?"

Kale narrowed his eyes. "He'll let you go eventually."

"I might be dead by then."

He felt a stab of fear at his own blunt words, because he knew it was true. And from the panicked look in Kale's eyes, Kale knew it, too. It gave him hope.

"Come on, Kale, all you have to do is cut the rope. I'll tell them it wasn't your fault. We can get away from here together."

Kale hesitated, then nodded. He took a step forward and stopped dead when he heard footsteps. Joe walked up, eyeing the two of them. "What's going on?"

"Nothing!" Kale said quickly, but he was an unconvincing liar.

"I think you've been running off your mouth again, Pretty Boy. What have you been saying to my brother?"

Dean was a long way past a smart comeback, so he said nothing.

"Lost your voice? Let's see if I can help you get it back."

Joe picked up the cattle prod, and Dean flinched, unable to stop himself. Not again. Please, not again.

Joe saw his reaction and grinned. "What's the matter, scared of the little stick?" He circled Dean, holding the prod against his neck and running it down his chest until it came to rest against his side, just above his hip. "Maybe if you beg nicely, I won't use it."

Dean wanted nothing more than to beg Joe not to hurt him, but something deep inside him just couldn't give the bastard the satisfaction.

"Go to hell," he said, and braced himself for the pain. He should have been ready, he knew how it felt, but it was as fresh and strong as ever. A scream was torn from his already raw throat as the familiar white-hot agony shot through his body.

Then, through the red haze before his eyes, he saw the door of the barn fly open and a very tall, broad-shouldered man marched in, gun in hand. He strode into the middle of the room and glanced in Dean's direction for one long moment. Then he pointed his gun very deliberately at Joe and said clearly, "Touch my brother again and I'll kill you."

Dean felt dizzy and the room swam before him. Maybe he'd passed out and this was a dream. Because for a minute there, he'd thought the man with the voice of granite and icy eyes was Sammy. His little brother. Dean blinked to clear his vision. No, it was still Sammy, standing resolutely, his grip firm on the gun. His mouth was set in a hard line, and the anger in his eyes frightened Dean a little. He was certain that if Joe took another step, Sam would take the shot, and it was clear Joe believed it too.

And it was wrong, it was so wrong to see his baby brother in the role of protector, yet he felt a stab of pride at Sam's strength and resourcefulness. He opened his mouth to warn Sam to be careful, not to underestimate Joe, but the room spun, and a moment later, everything faded into darkness.

………………………………

Sam had waited to take the gun out until the moment before he kicked open the barn door, knowing that McGraw would try to stop him from using it. But no way was he going in there unarmed -- he didn't know what weapons Joe had and he wasn't taking any chances with Dean's life.

He burst through the door. Everything was exactly as he'd seen it in the last vision, except for the fire, and he thanked God that he'd gotten here in time.

He glanced at Dean, bloody and bruised and clearly on the verge of collapse, and saw a flicker of shocked recognition in confused and pain-filled eyes.

He turned his gaze back to the man who had been torturing his brother – and enjoying it, by the smile on his lips and the manic light in his eyes – and pure rage coursed through him.

"Touch my brother again, and I'll kill you."

At that moment, he was ready to put a bullet through Joe's head if he so much as looked in Dean's direction.

Joe had taken a few steps towards him, but stopped abruptly, and Sam could tell he believed the threat.

"Drop the prod and put your hands in the air."

Kale already had his hands up, a look of terror on his face. Joe slowly placed the prod on the ground and raised his hands.

"Take it easy there, Sammy. Glad you could join us. You took your time."

"Step away from him."

"Anything you say, Sammy." Joe took two slow steps away from Dean and toward Sam. McGraw, who had slipped into the barn unnoticed, chose that moment to step out of the shadows.

Joe's eyes widened in disbelief. "Dad! What the hell are you doing here?"

"What do you think? You've just kidnapped and tortured a man, Joe. You've gone too far, and there's nothing I can do to protect you this time."

Joe's eyes narrowed. "Dad, what're you talking about? I'm doing this for Maddy."

McGraw shook his head. "No, you're not. You're doing it because you're a sadistic bastard." Sam watched pain contort his features and wondered how much it had cost him to say those words to his eldest son.

McGraw turned to his youngest. "Kale, I know you're only here because Joe made you do it. But it's over, son."

Kale nodded, licking his lips. "Dad, I'm sorry. Joe said--"

Joe snarled and his face contorted in rage. "You little bastard. You're gonna turn against your own brother?"

Ignoring Sam and the gun, he hurled himself at his brother and his superior weight bore them both to the ground. As they fell, Joe's foot caught the hurricane lamp on the floor. Time seemed to slow, and Sam watched in horror as it fell onto a bale of hay. The hay went up in flames, just like his vision, immediately spreading to a neighboring bale.

Oh, God. It was happening after all. He hadn't stopped it.

Sam looked desperately for something to douse the fire, but in seconds more bales had caught.

McGraw shouted, "We have to get out of here!"

Joe had already pushed himself to his feet and was running for the door. Caught in a moment of indecision, Kale's eyes flicked from Dean to the encroaching fire. McGraw shouted, "Kale, get out of here!" and after a moment's hesitation, Kale followed his brother while Sam and McGraw ran to Dean. Sam handed McGraw his knife and Tom began to cut through the rope. When the rope snapped, Dean dropped, but Sam was ready. Grateful that his brother was unconscious and unable to feel the pain, he quickly hefted him onto his shoulder and raced for the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Psychic Mojo**

Part Eight (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

Sam carried Dean to where he had parked the Impala alongside another truck, a safe distance from the burning barn.

The driver's door of the truck was open, and Joe and Kale stood beside it, arguing. Sam caught Joe's eye and the hustler shot him a venomous look. Had he not had his arms full of unconscious brother, Sam would have punched his lights out there and then.

"Here, lay him down on this."

Sam looked up to see Tom shed his long jacket and spread it on the ground. "Thanks, Mr. McGraw."

McGraw put a hand on his shoulder. "I think it's time you starting calling me Tom."

Sam nodded and Tom squeezed his shoulder. "Take care of your brother. I need to deal with my son."

Sam set Dean down as gently as he could and took a cursory inventory of his injuries. From the cuts and bruises on his face to the many discolored areas, mostly clustered around the ribs and belly, his brother wasn't a pretty sight. Sam bit his lip as he noted the numerous burn marks from the cattle prod. An image of Dean's face, caught in an expression of agony, flashed unbidden through his mind, and he shuddered.

He shrugged out of his jacket and covered Dean with it as best he could, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the drama unfolding within the McGraw family.

Kale was trying to hold Joe back as his brother attempted to get into the truck. Joe threw him off violently, and Kale stumbled, losing his footing and sprawling to the ground.

Sam watched Tom step up and brandish Joe's gun. "Step away from the truck, Joe."

Joe froze, staring incredulously at his father. "You're pointing a gun at your own son?"

"That's right," Tom said, and his voice shook with fury. "I've put up with enough from you over the past six months. I've covered for you, and I've made excuses for you, and it's stopping right now. This time, you've gone too far."

Joe moved away from the truck and faced off against his father. "Just whose side are you on, Dad? Way you're talking, you're making me think you don't you want to get Maddy back." Joe's tone was insolent, and Tom's expression darkened even more.

"You insolent pup. I'd give my life to get Maddy back. But kidnapping and torturing a man? That's barbaric, and I'm having no part of it."

"He had it coming," Joe said defiantly.

"Right. He beat you at pool and knocked you down when you were drunk, so you hang him from a beam and torture him?"

They locked eyes for a long moment. Joe was the first to look away. "Whatever. I'm outta here."

Tom cocked the gun. His voice was icily calm. "I told you not to get in that truck."

"What are you gonna to do, shoot me?"

"If I have to."

Father and son glared at each other for a long moment. From the steely look of resolve on Tom's face, Sam had no doubt that he'd shoot if Joe disobeyed him. He wondered what it was costing Tom to point a gun at his son.

Joe seemed to sense his father's determination; he slammed the truck door shut and faced him again.

"So, you're gonna turn me in, go against your own son for the sake of a total stranger?"

Tom shook his head. "You _are_ my son, Joe, and I love you. But right now, I'm angry and I'm disappointed, and you bet I'd turn you in. But that isn't going to happen. Not for your sake," he paused and glanced at Sam and Dean, holding Sam's eyes for a moment, "but for theirs. These boys are going to leave and there'll be no police."

Joe looked confused for a moment and then gave a cocky grin Sam wanted to punch off his face.

"Don't think you're getting off scott-free, son. I'll deal with you later."

Joe's grin faded. "Come on, Dad. I did it for Maddy."

"And you think your sister would be proud of you?" Tom asked.

Joe stared at him for a long moment, his jaw working, and then looked away. He seemed to sag, and it was clear that Tom's final comment had hit him hard.

"I just want her back, Dad."

Even though there was a note of genuine pain in Joe's voice, Sam couldn't feel a scrap of sympathy for the man – not while he was holding his battered, unconscious brother in his arms. While he'd been listening to the drama unfold, he'd been cutting carefully through the bloody cords that still bound Dean's wrists. He swallowed his anger. Joe needed to pay for this, but now wasn't the time. Now, Dean needed him.

Tom turned to his younger son. "As for you, Kale, it's about time you showed some backbone and stood up to your brother."

Kale shifted from one foot to the other. His head was down and he seemed unable to meet his father's eyes. "Yeah, Dad, I know. But… Joe was so sure this guy could find Maddy for us."

"Well, he was wrong. But that isn't the point, son." Tom paused, at the burning barn and Sam followed his gaze. The fire was now raging throughout the whole building, but the area around it was clear and still damp from yesterday's rain. It was unlikely that the flames would spread. "We'll talk about this later," Tom went on. "Kale, call the fire service. Joe, when they come, you'll tell them you were doing some work in the barn and kicked the lamp over by accident. You hear me?"

"Yeah, Dad."

Satisfied that Joe no longer posed an immediate threat, Sam finished removing the rope, wincing at the bruised and bloody contusions around Dean's wrists. He looked down anxiously at Dean's pale features, stroking a hand through his hair and quickly finding a blood-sticky lump on the back of his head. Dean groaned at the touch and his eyelids flickered.

"Dean? You with me?"

Dean grunted something incoherent.

"Come on, Dean," Sam coaxed. "Open your eyes, let me know you're with me."

Dean's eyelids flickered again and finally opened fully. He fixed his gaze on Sam, and Sam was relieved to see recognition.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Dean."

Dean's eyes widened and he started to pull himself up. "Sammy! You … Joe--"

Sam put his hands on his brother's shoulders, holding him down as gently as possible, scared at how easy it was to restrain him. "Don't try to move, Dean. It's over. You're safe now."

"No, Sam … wants you…"

"It's over, Dean," Sam repeated firmly. "I'm fine, okay, so just relax."

Dean's eyes ranged anxiously over his body, seeking reassurance, and after a moment taut muscles began to relax and his eyes closed again.

"That's it," Sam said softly. "Just take it easy."

He looked up as Tom appeared at his side. "How is he?"

"He's pretty beat up. Your son's done a real number on him."

Tom flinched at that, but Sam wasn't in the mood to worry about anyone's sensibilities. "There's a bottle of water in the front seat of the Impala. Could you get it for me?"

When Tom returned, he handed the water bottle to Sam, then crouched down, supporting Dean's head while Sam coaxed him to swallow a few mouthfuls.

When Dean had taken all the water he could, Tom lowered his head gently back to the ground and stood. "I'll get some blankets from the truck. We need to keep him warm."

Sam fished in his pocket for a handkerchief, soaked it in water, and began gently wiping the dried blood from Dean's face. Dean muttered something incomprehensible and then opened his eyes, looking anxiously at Sam. "You… sure you're okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Man, who's the one who's been beaten and tortured?"

Dean gave a small chuckle that turned into a groan.

"Right. So you don't need to worry about me. I'm fine. We'll be out of here soon, get you to a hospital."

"No!" Once more Dean tried to sit up and fell back with a moan. He shot his hand out from under the jacket to grasp Sam's forearm. "No …'spitals."

"Dean, don't be stupid," Sam said patiently. "We need to get you checked out."

"Too … risky."

"You're badly hurt…"

"No! P … promise me."

Sam watched him anxiously, gnawing on his lower lip. He knew Dean would push himself to the limits, brushing off injuries as if they were nothing. But he also knew that on occasions when his brother was seriously injured, he accepted a hospital as the only option. Sam hoped fervently that this time he was making the right call.

"Sammy?"

He didn't like it, but Dean was right. It would be difficult to explain the injuries, particularly the burns, as nothing more than the result of a fist fight in a bar.

"Okay. No hospital for now. We'll find a motel."

Dean relaxed visibly and his eyes drifted shut.

Tom returned with an armful of blankets and a bundle of clothes. "Dean's clothes," he explained. "Found them as I was leaving the barn."

"Thanks." Sam felt a lump rise in his throat and the prick of tears at the back of his eyes as he took hold of Dean's worn leather jacket. That jacket was one of Dean's most treasured possessions, and he would be devastated to lose it.

Together, Sam and Tom wrapped Dean in a couple of blankets and lifted him carefully onto the back seat of the Impala, laying him in as comfortable a position as possible. Dean floated in and out of consciousness, not alert enough to really be aware of what was going on. Which was just as well, Sam mused, as he wrapped another blanket securely around Dean's feet. His brother would object strongly to being enveloped in a tartan car blanket.

He draped Dean's jacket over the top, both for added warmth and because he hoped Dean would be reassured by the familiar smell of leather and gunpowder. As he did so, something fell out of the pocket. Dean's amulet. He picked it up, closing his fist around the small object, and choked up again. He'd been so busy worrying about Dean's injuries that he hadn't even noticed it was missing. He carefully re-knotted the broken thong and slipped it over Dean's head, tucking it safely inside the blankets where Dean could feel it against his skin.

He started the engine and put the heater on, then fished the first aid kit out of the trunk. After rummaging around, he found some Advil. A couple of pills would have to do for now – he'd save the heavy duty stuff for later.

He leaned in through the open rear door and put a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Dean, I need you to wake up for a minute."

Dean grunted and his eyes opened to half-mast.

"That's it. Just take these pills for me; they'll help the pain."

He held the pills to Dean's lips and his brother obediently opened his mouth, then took a couple sips of water to wash them down. Usually recalcitrant, Dean was being awfully cooperative, and Sam was sure he'd reached the end of his strength and was barely holding on. He squeezed Dean's shoulder. "Go back to sleep. We'll be out of here soon, but there's something I have to do first."

He waited until Dean's eyes drifted shut and then walked purposefully to where Joe was still standing beside the truck, ignoring Tom's questioning glance.

Joe's eyes were fixed on the burning building, and Kale was nearby, watching his brother. Judging by his determined expression, it looked as if he'd taken to heart his father's warning about his lack of backbone and was determined to stop Joe should his brother try to run.

Sam felt the burning rage well up as he glared at the man who had systematically and sadistically tortured his brother. He grabbed Joe by his collar and threw him against the side of the car.

"You should be put away for the rest of your miserable life for what you did to my brother. But you and I know that isn't going to happen. So I'll have to trust that your father'll do what he knows is right and make your life a living hell. In the meantime…"

He let go of Joe, stepped back and hit him in the face as hard as he could. Joe's head snapped back, and Sam felt the red-hot rage take over. Before Joe could recover from the first blow, he hit him again and then again. Joe was a few inches shorter, but broader and heavier, yet he had no defense against the ferocity of the attack. He cowered, arms held protectively over his head.

Somewhere in the distance Sam heard shouting and then felt strong arms grab him from behind, pulling him away.

"That's enough, son," Tom said sternly.

"Enough? After what he did to Dean?" Sam struggled to free himself, but the older man held on tightly.

"Listen to me. I'm not saying Joe doesn't deserve it, but don't do something you'll regret. Your brother's more important right now. He needs you."

Dean. As quickly as it had come, the rage subsided. Joe wasn't important. Only Dean mattered.

He relaxed against Tom's grip, and after a moment, Tom let him go. Sam turned to face him, panting from exertion, vaguely aware of the pain in his knuckles.

"You two need to get out of here before the fire department arrives," Tom said. "Sam, I know you don't feel you've had justice for your brother. But I promise you, I'll make sure Joe pays for what he's done. You have to trust me."

Sam glanced once more at Joe, who had slumped to his knees. Kale was trying to examine his face, but Joe brushed him off irritably. Sam turned away. He didn't want to look at Joe's face a moment longer.

He jogged back to the Impala and found Dean in the same position he'd left him. When Sam whispered his name, he opened his eyes a crack.

"How you doing, big brother?"

"'m okay."

"Yeah, right. We're getting out of here now. We'll get you to a motel and fix you up, okay?"

Dean didn't answer, and his eyes closed again. Sam pulled the blanket a little more tightly around him, and then got into the driver's seat. He leaned out the window as Tom approached.

"Sam, give me a call when you can, let me know how Dean's doing."

"I will." He hesitated. "Look, Tom, I want to thank you. I know this wasn't your doing, and I guess I trust you to do what's right. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry I couldn't help. I hope you find Maddy."

Remembering something, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the dog-eared teddy bear, handing it through the window. Tom took it silently, nodded once and walked away.


	9. Chapter 9 Story complete

**Psychic Mojo**

Part Nine (See part one for author's notes, disclaimers etc.)

**Monday, 11 am**

Joe's face loomed over him, the familiar smug grin firmly in place.

"You mouthing off again, Pretty Boy? I've got a good way to shut you up."

Dean jammed his lips together and flinched as Joe grasped his jaw in one meaty hand, large fingers digging in painfully, forcing him to unclench his teeth. With his other hand, Joe thrust the shock end of the prod into his mouth, and Dean gagged on cold metal as the electrodes bit painfully into tender flesh.

He couldn't do this again. He swallowed his pride and tried to cry out, to beg Joe to stop, but the obscene obstruction in his mouth choked back his words.

"I didn't quite catch that," Joe said, his tone mocking. "Was it, 'Turn on the current?' Okay then, whatever you say."

Then Joe's hands were on his shoulders, pinning him in place. He struggled violently as pain lanced through his body. He could hear Joe distantly through the roar in his ears – only it wasn't Joe's voice. It was Sam's.

He forced his eyes open and looked around wildly. It wasn't Joe holding him down, it was Sam and he didn't know why Sam was making him suffer like this, but his brother's voice was calm yet insistent, telling him to stop struggling, everything's okay.

He didn't understand what was happening, but he looked into Sam's eyes and saw nothing but concern and reassurance. This was Sam. Sam would never hurt him. He stopped fighting and screwed his eyes closed and Sam's hands shifted from his shoulders, one curling around his neck and the other on his forehead. Sam was speaking in a slow, soothing tone, and Dean held on grimly to the sound of his voice and the cool comfort of his hands against burning skin.

Long moments later the pain receded to a manageable level, and he risked opening his eyes. The dimly lit barn was gone. Instead, he was lying in a comfortable bed and Sam was perched on the edge, watching him intently with that patented anxious-Sammy expression.

He panted for breath, feeling nauseous. Damp with sweat, his face was throbbing as if he had a monster toothache. His whole body ached, and he wondered idly if this was what it felt like when someone ran over you with a steamroller and then backed up for good measure.

To sum it up, he felt like total crap.

Sam's hand glided across his forehead, stroking through his hair.

"You're okay, Dean. You're okay. It was a dream, man. Just a dream."

Just a dream. It was just a dream. But he knew it was more than that, and for a moment he was confused. Then his memory returned in a rush, and with it full awareness. Part of him didn't want to lose the comfort of Sam's hands, but he lifted an arm to bat them, noticing the thick bandage around his wrist. He shuddered as he thought about the long hours he'd spent hanging from that beam.

Sam scooted back a little, giving him some room. "Dean? You with me?"

"Yeah." His voice sounded hoarse and muffled, and damn, it hurt to talk. He touched his lip tentatively, noting the swelling, and winced.

"Don't, or it'll start bleeding again," Sam said sternly. "It really needs a couple of stitches."

"No hospital."

"Yeah, I know." Sam sounded resigned. "How do you feel?"

How did he feel? Well, all things were relative. There must have been times when he'd been in a lot more pain than this.

"M'okay," he managed finally.

Sam sighed. "Try again. What hurts most?"

Dean considered the question. "Everything."

Sam sighed again, and Dean felt like saying, "Hey, it's the truth," but he didn't have the energy. He was weak and wrung out and hurt too much even to think about a verbal sparring match with his brother.

"You need some more painkillers?"

Heck, yes. Instead, he said, "Not yet. Don't look at me like that, Sam. I'm not dying."

He regretted the flippant comment when a spasm of distress crossed Sam's face. Dean knew he was reliving the night before when he'd patched Dean up. Dean couldn't remember much of that, just some hazy images of Sam's hands moving across his body, so gentle for such a big guy, probing sore muscles, bandaging bloody wrists and dressing painful burns.

Sam frowned. "You're still pretty beat up, Dean. You have five or six cracked ribs, too many bruises to count, an egg on the back of your head and at least six bad burns…" His voice died out and he swallowed hard. Dean guessed that Sam had seen the prod in Joe's hand when he entered the barn and worked out what had caused the burns.

"So, I've been worse, then," he said, hating to see that look of anguish on Sam's face and knowing he was the cause of it.

From nowhere, a spasm of pain shot through the muscles of his right leg and he gasped.

"Dean?" Sam's face creased in worry once more.

Dean bit back a moan. "S'okay. Jus… Cramp. Leg."

Sam reached out a hand and Dean recoiled. "What're you doing?"

"It helps if you massage the muscle."

Dean gave Sam the best withering look he could while grimacing in pain. "Dude, if you lay so much as one ginormous mitt on me, you won't live to see twenty-three."

Sam sighed again. He was doing a lot of that. "Fine, but it might happen again. I read that a shock from a cattle prod can leave you with residual weakness and muscle spasms."

"_Residual_? Dude, who are you, House?"

Sam colored. "I did some research while you were asleep."

He rolled his eyes. "Sam, you truly are King of the Geeks."

"Shut up."

"Hey, I'm in pain here. A little more sympathy."

"What more do you want? I've offered to rub your leg…"

"And we're so not going there."

"Fine. Take some more pain killers, then."

"In a while." The spasm passed and he blew out a long breath. This sucked so badly.

He had a sudden urge to sit up, coupled by a determination to prove to Sam that he wasn't as much of an invalid as his brother thought. He started to push himself up, and pain lanced through his ribs. He gasped at the intensity of it, bile rose in his throat, blood rushed to his head and his vision swam as felt himself start to black out. Then a strong arm supported his back and he found he was gripping Sam's shirt, leaning in and letting his brother take his weight.

"Okay, take it easy. Slow breaths, Dean."

As soon as the pain subsided a little, he whispered, "Shit, this sucks," and loosened his strangle hold on Sam's shirt.

"Still want to sit up?"

"Hell, yeah."

"Okay." Sam held onto him with one hand and after a moment carefully lowered him back down. Those long arms came in useful sometimes, Dean mused, as he lay against the pillows Sam had plumped up. He felt more human now he could at least look his brother in the eye. He hated this. Hated being weak, hated that he couldn't even sit himself up in goddamn bed without help.

"You gonna puke?" Sam asked.

Dean considered. "Don't think so." He reached for the water bottle on the table beside him, and this time it was his shoulder screaming in protest as he lifted his arm.

"What?" Sam asked at once.

Dean grimaced. "Shoulder. Must have pulled a muscle or something."

"Having your arms tied above your head for fifteen hours will do that," Sam said dryly as he handed Dean the water bottle. "Dean, you know you're in bad shape. I really think we should get you to the hospital, have you checked out properly."

Dean took a long swig of water and kept hold of the bottle. "I'll be fine. I don't need the hospital," he said firmly, ignoring Sam's skeptical look. "So," he went on, to stop Sam from dwelling on his injuries, "Gonna fill me in on the parts I missed?"

Sam made himself more comfortable on the edge of the bed. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Dean cast his mind back. "I remember you bursting into the barn," he said slowly. "After that – just bits and pieces." Disjointed images. Smoke and the heat of fire. Sam, leaning over him, an anxious look on his face, his voice quiet and reassuring. Another man he vaguely recognized wrapping something around him. They were fragments that he couldn't put together to make a coherent whole.

"Okay. Well, you passed out soon after Tom and I got to the barn. Joe got into a fight with Kale and knocked over a lamp. The barn caught fire, and Tom and I got you out."

"Tom?"

"Joe's father. The guy from the bar."

Dean grunted. "Is that how you found me? By tracking him down?"

Sam hesitated. "Pretty much. When I got back to the motel and you weren't there, I called your cell. Joe answered, and I recognized his voice. He told me I had to use my 'psychic mojo' to find you."

"Figured as much," Dean said. "I kept telling him it wouldn't work, but he wasn't in the mood to listen."

"Not really the listening type, is he?" Sam agreed. "Anyway, I found someone at the bar who knew Tom and his boys, told me they're from Beaconville. I drove up there and got lucky in a diner – the waitress pointed me to Tom's house. He didn't know anything about it, Dean. Joe came up with the stupid plan on his own. Tom's a good man. He agreed to help me look for you."

"So, how did you find the barn?"

"We … worked it out. It's on Tom's brother's property, hour's drive from Beaconville. When we got there, we saw Joe's truck outside, knew it was the right place."

"Then you burst in and rescued the damsel in distress," Dean went on.

Sam smiled. "Yeah. Just my luck the damsel has hairy legs and stubble on her chin. When we got outside, Joe tried to drive off, but Tom stopped him -- actually threatened to shoot him if he bailed." His expression sobered. "He meant it, Dean. I think he'd have pulled the trigger if Joe hadn't backed down."

"Tough call, holding a gun on your own son."

"Yeah, well, sounds like Joe's been nothing but trouble and now he's pushed Tom too far. Anyway, we took off before the fire department arrived. Tom said he'd take care of everything and they'd say the fire was an accident."

Dean was silent for a moment, taking in everything Sam had said. He was proud of his brother's resourcefulness, yet… "Sam, you should have stayed away."

"Right," Sam said. "So I should have left you to be tortured by Neanderthal Man while I stayed safe and sound in my motel room?"

"Sam, I'm telling you, Joe's dangerous. If he'd gotten his hands on you…"

"But he didn't, Dean." Sam's voice wavered. "He got his hands on _you_."

"Look, I'd have gotten away eventually. I was working on Kale – he was scared from the start, he'd have let me go in the end."

"Dean…"

"Sam, I've been hurt worse. It isn't as bad as it looks. I'm okay, really."

Sam looked at him incredulously. "You're not okay. I_ saw_ what that bastard did to you, Dean, and you're not okay."

"Look, Sam…"

"You don't understand. You were running out of time. As it was, I was almost too late…" Sam's voice cracked.

What? What did Sam just say? A suspicion began to form. "What d'you mean, you were almost too late? And how did you _see_ what he did to me?"

Sam sat back, worrying his lower lip with his tongue. It was a habit he'd had as a kid, and one he fell back on when upset. "That's how we worked out where Joe was holding you. I had a vision."

"You had a vision," Dean repeated, stunned by the revelation. How could Sam have had a vision about him? He couldn't conjure visions like that. Or could he? "Were you planning on sharing this small fact with me?"

"Of course I was. I just thought we could talk about it later, when you're feeling better."

"Let's talk about it now. Tell me what you saw."

Sam shrugged. "Actually, it was three visions."

Dean raised his eyebrows, but didn't speak.

Sam went on, "I saw… The first time, I saw Joe beating you with ...with a baseball bat. The second time, I saw him … I saw what that bastard did to you with the cattle prod."

Dean was silent while he tried to take in what Sam was saying. It was already unsettling to accept that Sam had found him in that barn, naked and helpless. Now Sam was telling him he'd also seen him at his weakest, screaming in agony. He hated his brother to see him weak, and he hated seeing how it had affected Sam.

Then he realized that Sam had mentioned three visions. "What about the third vision?"

Sam swallowed. "I saw… the fire. I… I guess Tom and I changed the future. In the vision, Kale knocked over the lamp and he and Joe -- they ran out, just left you hanging there. You… I saw you… that's why I knew there was no time, Dean. If we'd taken any longer to find you…"

"God, Sam I'm sorry."

"_You're_ sorry!" Sam sprang up, and Dean bit back a groan as the bed rocked. Sam started pacing. "I'm the one who should be sorry, Dean. Don't you get it? This is all my fault. If I'd listened to you, if I hadn't told everyone about my vision in Fork River, the McGraws would never have found out about me!"

"Sam, it's not your fault. You were right, back in Fork River. If we hadn't told the sheriff, those people in the cave would have died. You saved lives, Sam."

"I don't care about that!" Sam shouted. "I almost lost you, Dean, don't you understand?"

"I understand," Dean said calmly, "but that doesn't make this your fault. Crap happens to us all the time; this is no different."

"It_ is_ different. It happened because of me."

"It happened because Joe McGraw's a desperate man who'd do anything to get his sister back."

Sam glared at him, stubbornly refusing to let go of his guilt. Dean decided to change tack. "Sam, it was your psychic mojo that saved my life."

"My psychic mojo is what got you in that mess in the first place."

There were tears glistening in Sam's eyes, and Dean was out of ideas to make him see sense. This wasn't over, but he let it go when Sam abruptly changed the subject.

"Look, I need to check those dressings, make sure none of the wounds are infected."

"Aw, hell, Sam. Can't it wait?"

Sam's lips thinned into a stubborn line. "No, it can't. Dean, if you won't go—"

"Okay, fine." Dean sighed and leaned back without further protest. He knew it was important to Sam to think he was looking after him properly.

Sam perched on the edge of the bed and Dean tried not to flinch as Sam ran his hands gently over his ribs and the deep bruising across his belly. From the tight way he was holding himself and the clench in his jaw, Dean could see this was hurting Sam as much as it was hurting him.

Sam worked silently, checking dressings one by one. Eventually, he removed the gauze from the final burns on Dean's chest, applied more antiseptic cream and taped down a new dressing. Then he rested his hand over Dean's heart, closing his eyes. Dean realized he was counting the beats.

"Dude."

"What? Am I hurting you?"

"Sam, chill out," he said gently. "It's not gonna stop beating."

Sam looked at him intently. "Man, you were electrocuted. Again. And you want me to chill out?"

"Wasn't the same thing. Current through those prods, it's lower voltage than the tazers."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"I'm not saying it's okay, I'm just saying that it won't have done the same damage as the tazer. It hasn't hurt my heart, okay? Just trust me on this." Yeah, he was no doctor, but he remembered what it felt like to wake up in a hospital bed, knowing from the effort it took to draw a simple breath that something was terribly wrong inside. He might feel like shit now, but he can tell the difference.

Sam managed a smile, running his hand quickly across his eyes. "Now who's being the medical geek?"

"Hey, that's different." Dean mustered a grin. "A hunter has to know his weapons."

Sam's hand still lingered on his chest, and Dean could see he wasn't convinced, despite his attempt to cover his concern with banter. They needed to move on from this moment.

"Dude, no offense, but if I wanted someone feeling me up, I'd choose that little red-headed waitress we met at the Denny's in Fork River. You know, the one with the little rose tattoo between…"

"Okay, I get the message." Sam removed his hand. He took a deep breath and then regarded Dean appraisingly. "I hate to break this to you, but the way you look, you couldn't score a blind wendigo, never mind that waitress from Denny's."

Mission accomplished. "Dude!" he said, feigning an indignant tone. "You underestimate my inner charm."

Sam grinned. "Unless, of course, she has a thing for guys who look like a cross between Frankenstein's monster and something out of Shawn of the Dead."

He was glad he'd made Sam laugh, but he couldn't help putting a hand up to feel his face. Shit. Sam was right. When he looked in the mirror, he was going to see something from a late night horror movie staring back at him.

Sam was suddenly serious again. "It's okay," he said softly. "Nothing's broken – you'll be back to your usual ugly self in no time."

Dean couldn't find a witty comeback. He was suddenly exhausted by the effort of simply staying awake.

Sam was giving him that concerned look again. "You need to take some pain killers and get some more sleep. If you won't get checked out properly, at least you're gonna stay put and rest, okay?"

He could have protested, but truthfully, all he wanted was to drift back into sleep. "Whatever you say, Mom."

"Okay."

Sam passed him two tablets. Dean swallowed them with a mouthful of water and then allowed Sam to mess with the pillows. As Sam started to get up, he said, "Sam – that Rambo entrance into the barn? That was awesome, man. Seriously."

"You think?"

"You scared _me_."

Sam grinned, and then his face dropped. "I shouldn't have left Tom to deal with Joe. I should have done – something. Maybe I should have made an anonymous call to the police. Still could…"

"Nah, you made the right call. We can't get the police involved in this. You trust this Tom guy, right? Let him take care of it."

"I guess. It's just … I want Joe to be punished for what he did to you."

_Me too_, Dean thought. He glanced at Sam's bruised knuckles. "Looks like he didn't get off that lightly."

Sam shrugged. "He got nothing like he deserved." He paused. "If it were me, would you just leave it?"

Dean was silent for a moment. He knew he wouldn't, and so did Sam. If that psycho had hurt his brother, he'd have gone back and beaten the crap out of him without a moment's hesitation. But he wasn't Sam, and he knew that while Sam was angry enough to do it right now, he'd later regret resorting to mindless violence. And he was glad of that. He hadn't been lying when he told Sam it had scared him to see him charge into that barn. The expression of rage on Sam's face left him in no doubt that he would have pulled the trigger, and he hated that Sam had been put in that position.

"You did the right thing," he repeated.

"Yeah. Maybe."

The painkillers were kicking in. He was beginning to feel comfortably drowsy, and the incessant aches and pains receded to a background blur. Sam fussed with the comforter, pulling it up a little further around his shoulders and tucking the ends in firmly. Dean opened his mouth to protest at being tucked in like a little kid, and then closed it again, grudgingly admitting to himself that on this one occasion, he didn't really mind.

But there was something important they had to talk about before he let sleep claim him, and he forced his drooping eyelids open.

"Sam, these visions, this ability of yours – we'll figure it out."

"How, Dean? You can't tell me this isn't freaking you out. You must have wondered if it's leading to some place really bad. What if there's something in me that somehow connects with people who are doing evil? What if … What if The Demon did something to me when I was a baby?"

Dean paused. Every time they'd discussed Sam's visions they'd skirted the fact that The Demon might be involved. It had tried to take or kill Sam when he was only six months old, and it clearly had an interest in Max, too – another kid with psychic abilities. But they had no proof that it was involved in the visions, and no way was Dean going to start jumping to the conclusion that his brother had a direct line to the heart of evil.

"Sam, you don't know that," he said carefully. "So far, the visions have just warned you that something bad's gonna happen, so you can help."

"What, you think they might be coming from God, or something?"

Dean hesitated. He didn't believe for a moment that God, if he even existed, had a hand in this, but the desperate look in Sam's eyes told him that his brother needed some hope to cling to. "I dunno, Sam. Maybe. But whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. I know you're scared. But I'll always be looking out for you, okay?"

There was silence for a moment and Dean found his eyes drifting shut. Then he felt a hand on his arm.

"We look out for each other, Dean," Sam said softly. "We're in this together, okay?"

There were so many reasons why that statement wasn't right. It was his job to look after Sam, not the other way round. That was what big brothers did. But he was too tired to argue, and he couldn't deny that together the Winchester brothers kicked ass.

"Sure, Sam," he said drowsily. "But this doesn't mean you get to drive the car."

He drifted into sleep on the wave of Sam's laugh.

**The End**

**Swanseajill 02/07**


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